


Livewire

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-05-21 09:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14912822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono and Edge take a trip to The Flaming Colossus. Set in Los Angeles during the recording of Rattle and Hum.





	1. The Flaming Colossus

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, welcome to my new fic that was meant to be a oneshot, and a shortish one at that, but exploded into a mini saga. Oops. This fic was very scary for me to write, as I've never written from this POV before, never written in first person (in this fandom) before, and rarely write in present tense--WHAT AM I DOING TO MYSELF, THIS IS A DISASTER? But anyway, I hope it's okay because I am anxiety, but here we are. I don't know when the second chapter will turn up, as I have other fics that desperately need my attention during this short break from uni and my plan was to finish this ONESHOT and then move on to them, but now it's to finish this CHAPTER and move on to them and then come back to this, so YES, WHO KNOWS, BUT IT'S PLANNED OUT, OKAY? It'll happen. Also, I've no idea the layout of The Flaming Colossus, but have taken creative liberties in describing it, for I am an ~artist~ I'll stop yelling now, I love you all, and I hope you enjoy this when you can xxx

I’ve been keeping a diary while in LA, and I had high hopes, I truly did, that first day upon picking up a pen to put to paper. It was a cohesive narrative that I aimed for while tracking our experience in a city that had eaten countless alive and impressed onlookers with its shiny exterior, but it took all of one night for me to completely lose sight of my original intentions. I still date the top of every fifth page or so, but don’t fill all that daunting white paper with traditional thoughts about my day. It’s just not in me, I’ve realized.

Instead, I rely on the same techniques that have helped guide me in the past, scrawling in blue, black or even red, words of adorations and musings and poetry about the world, life and the holy spirit, inspired mostly by the very city that we’ve found ourselves stumbling into. And who knows? Maybe one day I might even turn these ramblings into a novel of sorts, although it will pale in comparison to others written about Los Angeles. I read a book recently, written by this kid who described the city with two perfect words—Disappear Here—and a whole lot of pages.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what it might be like to disappear completely in this place, to be sucked in and live for the night and shine in the day.

_There are angels to be discovered in Los Angeles_ , I wrote in my diary just last night, _and I’ve searched and found and lost and known but haven’t yet misplaced my soul. How long can I make it last?_

It was a question that had an obvious answer, one that I didn’t put on the page. Why ruin expressive contemplations with the realities of life? Soon enough it will truly hit me, though, I’m almost sure of it. Life in LA is too loud to be anything more than fleeting. There will come a day when I miss the stillness of home. Perhaps I already do. I write about it enough, dedicating sections to the land and water, to Ali, of course, and the band, and you.

_What about me?_ I imagine you asking, and it’s a question that I’m not sure I should answer, or even know how to.

Last week, you caught my eye during a moment where I don’t think you remembered the rest of the world existed, let alone me. There was a guitar in your hand that wasn’t in use, a sheet of paper in front of you with your own words and letters jotted down and crossed out, but it was the open window that held your attention. You didn’t look like you, and when you caught me staring your reaction was slow, a change of expression emerging in pieces. I’ve seen you smile in so many different ways over the years, and believed all but one of them.

_Oh, Edge_ , I wrote in my diary that night before even realizing that my mind had turned back to you, and it refused to supply me with just one sentence to finish up my thought on the page, handing me instead enough chaos to distract me for a good twenty minutes.

There’s only one page so far in my diary that is not filled to the brim with my disorganized thoughts, but all that empty space doesn’t feel like a waste. What would your reaction be if you were to flip through it and see those two words written at the top of their own page? Would you be surprised? Curious? Or would you just turn the page and continue reading on? It’s so easy to pretend sometimes, isn’t it?

After all this time, I think you and I have become experts at ignoring the writing on the wall. But I find myself wondering every so often, during those nights when I shouldn’t, if it hits you when you least expect it, like it does me. Does it make you happy, or scare you? Excite you? Turn your thoughts firmly south? All of the above? And do you ever think about what might happen if we ever spoke about it? Do you even think about me at all?

I hope you do, I hope you don’t, I hope I make you lose your mind sometimes, at least a little. It’s only fair, after all.

Weeks can pass without me dedicating a single thought to this thing between us, but then all it takes something as simple as your hand brushing against mine as a pen is handed over to make it all come roaring back through my mind like a 747. And for a good few hours my sanity is stolen away, and I put on a front and smile and laugh and attempt to treat you like nothing is different, all the while imagining chairs being thrown across a room in my brain at the very sight of you. Then those good few hours pass and I’m back, in mind, body and spirit, and life goes on, as it fucking should.

But it seems different this time around. Days have gone by and yet here I am, still completely distracted by you. I think you’ve finally broken me, you wanker. Are you even sorry? Of course not, you’ve no fucking idea, all you presently seem to know is that one melody that is apparently plaguing you with its evasiveness.

Did you even notice Adam and Larry leave? Do you realize it’s just the two of us left here in the studio? I don’t think you do. I’m not sure when you last looked up at me. I don’t know why I’ve not gone as well. As it turns out, the muse currently speaketh in an unknown tongue and not to me, and as such I’ve dedicated myself to doing nothing remotely useful tonight.

There’s just something about watching you work that captivates me, though, especially when you’re attempting to unlock some puzzle that has completely stumped you so far. Others might see frustration, but not me. I don’t know if there’s one single word to describe what I see. Leave? I can’t. Not tonight. Not until something happens to break this spell. Because it is a spell of sorts, isn’t it, one that I’m not entirely sure you’re aware of.

But I’m right there in it, and I know I shouldn’t be, that the right thing to do would be to try and turn my thoughts elsewhere, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“I think you’re on to something,” I say only when I can’t stand the silence a moment longer. My hope is that you look up at me and respond, and you do, and this surprises me. Why? Who the fuck could ever know?

“It’s not there yet. Not even close.”

“I know, I know, but . . .” I shrug, and you smile. It’s faint, but I’ll take it. “It’ll be something special when it’s done. It already sounds . . . I’m digging it, Edge.”

That smile of yours finds its wings, and stays in flight until your gaze turns away from me. “Where is everyone?”

“We’ve been abandoned.”

“Oh. Is it late?”

“No, the night is young, it just proved to be far too tempting for those who have no staying power.”

Your fingertips lightly strum the strings of your guitar as you consider this, the wall by my head apparently far more interesting to you than my actual face. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with them,” you say, and again I shrug.

“I’m feeling selective in the company I keep tonight.”

“So you passed up a night out to watch me fuss about instead?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It makes for riveting viewing, you know. Who needs a movie about us on tour when they could instead just film you trying to match the melody in your head for five hours straight? That’s the sort of movie that wins Oscars, Edge. And anyway, like I said, the night is young. I’ve still got plenty of time to go out and make a complete fool of myself.”

You shake your head while chuckling quietly, but that smile of yours is quick to fade when our eyes meet. I receive only silence as a response, instead of the expected charming reply that usually follows such comments from me. There’s something on your mind, and I can’t be sure, but I think it might match my own thoughts.

Has it hit you too? I hope it has, I hope it hasn’t. Have you realized how completely alone we currently are? Are you wondering what I’m thinking? Are you also feeling obliged to come up with a way out of this moment, and fast? We’ve never had to even talk about it, have we? No, but we both know the score anyway, we both know what we have to do, and yet here we are, and all I can seem to feel is glad for it.

“Do you want to go somewhere after this?” I ask only because one of us has to speak up. I’m confident I already know the answer, but you had told me only recently—and another time not so recently—that I am nothing if not persistent. I just can’t help myself, can I? And we both know that I will keep on asking despite hearing that same two letter word quietly thrown back my way during past and likely present and future propositions.

To my surprise, you offer me a three-letter word instead.

You stay finishing up as I leave the room to grab a quick drink before heading to the bathroom and taking care of business. The door opens as I’m washing my hands, the sound of your footsteps mingles with the running water, and when I glance up I find you right behind me.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and my mind is instantly flooded with a number of intrusive thoughts about you. Are you seeing that same heat being passed between us? Has it started to turn low and deep inside, or are you not there yet?

I haven’t moved. The water is still running cold against my hands, but my cheeks feel as though they are burning up. Are they turning red? You would know. I don’t dare glance from you to check my own reflection, and you don’t tempt me to do so by looking away, not at first. And when you finally do find it in yourself to break the gaze, that heat seems to linger in the air even after the stall door closes behind you.

It takes me a moment to jump back into the real world. My cheeks aren’t red but feel like they should be still, and I’ve wasted half of the city’s water supply. I shut off the tap and quickly dry my hands before walking out of the bathroom as calmly as I possibly can. I don’t want you to think that you’ve freaked me out in any way, after all, because you haven’t. I am calm, I am fine, I even manage to not jump on you or at you and start yelling _what the hell was that?_ when you step out to join me just outside the bathroom door after half a year has seemingly passed. “Ready?” I ask instead.

Your throat bobs as you glance back at the bathroom. I can’t read you when you’re like this. Are you reliving it? Considering more? Feeling remorse? “Ready,” you confirm, though you look anything but.

It’s not a night for conversation, I discover as we make our way into the belly of the beast. I say three things to you and you respond only because your mother raised you right. I’m not even sure our eyes meet once during the drive. Are you regretting saying yes? Are you regretting more than that? Your silence tells me it’s a strong possibility, but with your eyes fixed on the traffic it is impossible to know for sure.

We’re out of the car and weaving through a crowd of excessively attractive women and men when you do finally look at me, smiling as though you know I am desperate to see your face lighting up my way. Fuck, am I really that transparent?

_Only to me_ , I imagine you saying, words that might sound patronizing coming from anyone else, but never you. And I would let you get away with telling such a lie only because it is you, Edge. You and Ali, the two of you are the only ones who can see right through me. But there’s a funny thing about knowing a person, isn’t there? Sometimes you can think that you understand their entire being, only to be smacked in the face by reality when you look at them and find yourself wondering.

_What do you wonder_? I imagine you asking, a question that might force me to do something a bit mad, like put on some sort of performative act reminiscent of a shy schoolgirl flustered by the thought of her secret crush being discovered by the boy she’s crushing on . . . although such a take might be better suited to someone like Gavin. But I could lose the schoolgirl and keep the fluster, only to make you smile.

No. No, it would be more than that, wouldn’t it?

I don’t fear rejection from you, never have. I can admit that to myself far too easily. It’s what could possibly eventuate after you asking such an innocent question, even if it is imaginary, that terrifies the shit out of me. Because to answer it truthfully would lead to follow up questions, which would lead to more admittances on my part and perhaps also yours, and from there it would continue to build and build until looking back on it became a distant concept that was no longer possible.

Rejection is necessary, rejection is a godsend, but I don’t think it’s a response that either of us know how to give after certain questions have been posed. So why not turn to fluster to break the tension and protect us both in the process? Why not act as though I'm not overly confident, even when it's all a lie? Why not be completely ridiculous?

It’s a part of my blood now, having been pumped into me from the very first moment a microphone appeared in my hand. Lose the schoolgirl act (though if asked I will maintain that I simply soured on the idea because it was dumb and not something that I should have even thought of, much less considered, and not because past experiences have shown that I do not flatter a skirt nor does it flatter me) lose the fluster even, because it just isn’t me.

There are plenty of other ways to make you smile, to lead you to distraction. Look to the stars, look at the masterpiece that we are lucky enough to experience each and every day. Forget that you ever asked me such a question, and don’t even think about why the thought crossed your mind in the first place. And while you’re at it, forget that you ever caught my eye in the reflection of a bathroom mirror. Have you forgotten? Are you looking? Have you lost yourself yet? Are you smiling, Edge?

You are. And it lingers as your hand finds my lower back, an instinctive move of yours that I’ve encountered so many times in the past, used to guide the guideless the exact way that I intend to go.

When was it that you lost faith in my ability to navigate through doorways alone? Was there one specific incident that made you realize I had no earthly clue, or was it just a general feeling that struck you from the very beginning?

Sometimes I think that you do it only so you have a reason to touch me, but then you’ve never needed an excuse for that. Tonight, I’m sure that’s the truth, and I imagine you again asking the question, only this time I answer.

_What do I wonder, Edge? So much that it’s hard to know where to begin . . . you’re right, I am lying, of course I know where to begin. I’ve got it all planned out._

_So tell me, do you also lose hours dreaming up conversations between us, or pretty little declarations said by you or me that are doomed to exist only in the world of make believe? And if so, what sort of situations have we experienced in that giant brain of yours? You know, sometimes I wonder whether we should compare notes and see if any of our fantasies match up, because there is no limit to my curiosity on so many matters but especially the ones pertaining to you, and I want to know everything. I want to know where we differ and where we match, I want to know you, period. That said, at this point in our lives my notes would likely fill a novel that, lengthwise, could give The Lord of the Rings a run for its money, and even you might find that daunting, as far as reading materials go. What else do I wonder, Edge? Wouldn’t you like to know?_

“You said there would be belly dancers,” you say to me after leaning in close to be heard over the music. Your breath warms my neck, making up for the loss felt by your disappearing hand. Heat replaced with heat, only now there is no material to soften the blow.

“No, I said there _have_ been belly dancers,” I counter, and don’t receive the smile I was hoping for. “You have to expect the unexpected in a place like this. The people here live for the night. One night there are belly dancers, the next you might find yourself caught up in a sword swallowing conference. And the music that they play here, Edge! Have you ever heard Arabic music? _Real_ Arabic music?” I ask, only to realize your attention has been stolen away.

A sea of people have parted for you as though you are Moses himself, and there at the bar I spot the man who has led you to distraction. Even from across the room it’s obvious Adam has been here for a while. He unsteadily raises his drink in greeting, and that gesture is all it takes for you to abandon me completely. Naturally, like a stray dog I immediately follow.

“Well!” Adam exclaims when we are not quite close enough for pleasantries. I can feel the sex of the music. Have you noticed it too? Or is the rumbling of the bass too much of a distraction? “What brings you to The Flaming Colossus?” It’s a question exclusively for you, because after so many visits it might just seem fair for me to declare the club a second home, and Adam is well aware of this fact, given that he, too, has set up residence here.

Still, you immediately look to me as if searching for the one reason that makes the most sense—that, or you’re blaming me for it all. And then you shrug, turning back to Adam with a smile that I don’t believe for a second. “Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about, I suppose.”

“Pardon?”

“Drink?” I interject, and you nod. “What’s your poison tonight, Edge?”

“Surprise me.”

Whiskey it is. “What’s your most expensive bottle?” I ask the barman, who smiles like he’s used to such questions before answering. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s seen a variety of men trying to impress women with pure extravagance. But has he ever seen a singer splash out for his equally rich guitarist . . . just because? “That’ll do nicely. Two glasses, on the rocks, and start a tab, would you, Corey?”

You look at me long enough to give a requisite smile of thanks as you take the drink on offer, then turn your attention back to whatever story Adam is attempting to talk your ear off with. Which is fine, completely fine. We’re in a club, after all, a place where the music dares even the most self-conscious souls to make a complete fool of themselves on the dancefloor and still somehow go home feeling good about their night. I am not self-conscious, of course, but maybe I am a fool.

_Only for me_ , I imagine you saying—another lie, one that I would never call you on—as I watch the real you pay me not one lick of attention. Neither you nor Adam glance up when I walk away.

There is a certain kind of heat to be found only on the dancefloor, the result of all those bodies moving together, sweating and bumping, conducting electricity, turning the air thick and heavy as though a lightning storm is on the horizon. I can’t dance, I know, but I do it anyway. And maybe it is because I have no skill on the dancefloor that I enjoy it so much—I’ll never be good, and society has agreed with this by placing absolutely no pressure on me to do anything but try and find a little bit of that good old-fashioned soul in this half-grown body of mine.

I lock eyes two songs in with a pretty blonde dressed all in silver, her sky-high heels lifting her up to a height that I’ll never be able to reach, no matter how hard I try. Her gaze asks _is it you?_ and when I confirm with a slight nod she smiles and moves in closer. My space is invaded by the scent of her sickly-sweet perfume. “I’m a fan,” she purrs in my ear as bold fingers snag my necklace. “I thought I saw you here the other night, but I was too shy to say anything then.”

“You don’t strike me as the shy type.”

She laughs a pretty laugh that I’ve heard so many times before. “What do I strike you as?”

I kiss her cheek before taking a step back, then another just to be safe, offering her what I hope to be the right smile for the situation. “A silver goddess. The dancefloor is lucky to have you.”

“Where are you going?”

“New legislation, darling, only those who know how to cha-cha are allowed out here.” I shrug. “The dancefloor has insisted that I leave.”

She squints at me. “You’re funny. I didn’t know you were funny.”

“I’m only allowed to be funny when the cameras aren’t on me,” I say before turning, throwing up a hand in goodbye as I walk away from her. Briefly, I lose myself in a sea of sweaty people, but manage to emerge on the other side in record time. Adam is still by the bar, I find, and so is my drink, but you are gone.

“Adam . . . _Adam_!”

“What?” Adam exclaims, throwing me a look that is about as close to a glare as he can muster. The woman at his side frowns, completely unimpressed by both the interruption and me as a person in general.

“Where’s Edge gone? Has he left?”

“Left? No, he’s sitting down.”

“Sitting down _where_?”

Adam’s famous _can’t you see I have company?_ look is thrown my way, and it holds as he, slurring slightly, dutifully answers, “In the back room.”

“Right. The back room. Okay.” The melting ice has watered down my drink, but good whiskey is still good whiskey, even with such a flaw. I stay standing by Adam and the woman, dimly aware of the vibes that are being directed towards me by them as I contemplate my past, present and future in the short time it takes for my glass to turn empty. “Don't do anything that I wouldn't do,” I tell them before taking a few steps to the left and reaching out to grab the barman’s attention. “I’ll be taking the rest of that bottle, if you don’t mind, Corey.”

I find you in the back room, as promised, sitting in the darkened corner all on your own. Your eyes are fixed on your empty glass, watching as you roll it back and forth between your hands. Your expression makes me wonder if you regret not going home instead. There are two little girls in Beverly Hills who have no doubt long given up waiting for their daddy to come and tuck them into bed tonight. _Oh, Edge,_ I have to bite my tongue from saying, _what are you doing here?_

I think I know. And the truth of it all should eat me up inside, but it doesn’t.

How many bad decisions have you made in your life because of me? How many more might you make before the year is out, or even the month? What about before the sun rises in the morning? I hope none, I hope a few, I don’t think I know what I want. How is it that you have the ability to turn my thoughts so completely schizophrenic? How is it that thinking about what you and I could be if we were to take a wrong turn and keep heading down that path of no return can scare me shitless and excite me at the same time? You really have broken me this time around, haven’t you? And you’ve managed to do it simply by being yourself. It’s not fair, nor is it right, and yet . . .

You glance up when I approach, a faint smile appearing only when I raise the bottle of whiskey to show you. “Mind if we keep you company?”

“I thought you’d still be dancing.”

“I’ve had enough for tonight,” I say as I slide into the booth next to you. “I just wasn’t feeling it.”

“You looked like you were having fun.”

“Were you spying on me, The Edge?”

You shrug. “I might have caught a glimpse through the crowd. Just one glimpse, though. Enough to see you had made a friend.”

There’s a tone to your voice that I don’t think I’ve heard before. “She was a fan, as it turns out.”

“I’m sure she was. Though it looked to me like she wanted more than your autograph.”

“Yeah, well, maybe she did, but I’m here with you, she’s still out there alone, and I’ve got a valid marriage certificate being kept somewhere safe back home. Those are facts, Edge, do with them what you will,” I rush out, and you merely smile in response. “Now. Would you like a drink?”  

“I suppose.” You hold out your glass to be filled, chuckling tiredly when I hit the halfway point and show no signs of stopping. “You would make a terrible bartender, you know.”

“Look, I’m paying out of my arse for this bottle, so you better believe I’m not going to waste a single drop. I expect you to help me finish it, of course.”

“Do you now?”

“Mmhmm.”

You watch as I fill my own glass, shaking your head as though there’s something more than just whiskey on your mind. Whatever it is, you don’t voice it, nor do you say anything more after the obligatory _cheers_ as our glasses clink together. I watch you shift in your seat. Your fingers briefly rap against the tabletop before stopping. You shift again.

“This isn’t you, is it?” I ask.

“Sometimes it is.”

“But not now.”

“No.”

“Why haven’t you left then?”

You don’t look at me, though I feel like you want to. Instead, you just shake your head and quietly laugh. “I . . . because I haven’t.”

It’s an answer of sorts, I suppose, and perhaps the only one you currently have. I have my own ideas on why you’re still here, but I don’t dare mention them. Sometimes, it’s just best to let sleeping dogs lie.

There’s far less commotion in this room compared to the next one over, yet still you manage to find things to look at—the lights above, the artwork on the walls, the animated group two tables over. The smoke from their cigarettes has permeated the air and is making my eyes sting a little. There are so many things to capture your attention, it seems. Are you really that interested in your surroundings, or are you just caught up in your own special game of avoiding the problem at hand?

You might have found your own distractions, but I am not that easily preoccupied—not tonight, anyway. Maybe every other day of my life, yes, but not this one.

We drink as the silence lingers between us, you continue to glance anywhere but me, and my thoughts don’t wander how I hoped they would. No, they trickle right back to the way you looked at me in the bathroom mirror. What was that?

I think I know. No, I do know, of course I do. But why today? What changed? Nothing. There was nothing, at least not in my world, I don’t think—not outwardly, anyway. Is it you? Or is it us?

There are some things in life that I think are inevitable, others that I’m sure are, and one that I try not to put a name on most of the time, much less consider. If I don’t think of it directly nor label it as what it is, then it’s just so much easier to ignore for as long as I possibly can. And it’s worked for me so far. But that look of yours . . .

Sometimes, I think that we would just keep on dancing even if the room that we were in was set alight. Which is a dramatic image to consider, certainly, but drama is also a part of my blood, though I don’t flaunt it quite as proudly as my tendency to be ridiculous.

_Imagine it_ , I picture myself saying to you, _the curtains are on fire, the flames are closing in on us, but what do we do? Nothing. Not a damn thing except what we’re already doing, Edge. So what if we go up in flames? So fucking what?_ And you would simply smile at me and let me get away with telling such a lie, because it’s what you do. It’s just your nature with me, isn’t it?

What else would you let me get away with in this imaginary world? Everything under the sun? It sounds feasible.

But in the real world, of course, you would be dragging me out of that room the second that first spark made its grand entrance into our lives. In the real world, you might even put a stop to any sort of nonsense that could potentially lead to the fire being lit in the first place. In the real world . . .

You glance at me when I shift in my seat, and continue to stare as I rub at my eye until the stinging sensation fades. Our eyes meet, but still you don’t look away. Is this what you were avoiding, another moment like the one we shared in the bathroom? Am I really that enthralling? I have my doubts on the matter, but I am not you. I don’t know what it is that keeps you looking. All I know is I’m glad you do, and I shouldn’t be.

My hand is moving before I know it. It’s not aiming to do anything inappropriate, though, just pat you on the knee. I don’t know where the urge came from—where does it _ever_ come from?—and I certainly don’t know why I think it’s a good idea to let my hand stay put right where it is.  

For a moment we just continue staring at each other, and then your gaze turns to my hand on your knee, where it stays for so long that I start to get a bit freaked.

A part of me wants to tear my hand away and pretend as though everything was completely fine, another part of me thinks dragging that hand up against warm denim, my fingertips sliding along your inner thigh until they hit the cold metal of your zipper, is a fantastic idea. I do neither, and babies are conceived, gestated and born in the time that passes before one of us moves again.

It’s you, not me, that takes that giant leap, your hand shifting against the tabletop, coming alive to move through the air in one big blur before ultimately settling down on top of mine. Your touch is far from light, your fingers curling around the side of my hand to hold, as though you’re worried something might yet spook me enough that I’ll bolt, and I can’t be entirely certain yet, but I don’t really see that happening in our immediate future.

When I say your name it comes out sounding like another man’s voice, whisper quiet and shaky. You don’t look up at me or speak, and I don’t even attempt to pull away. You just watch your fingers curl around my hand while I watch your face.

I’ve held your hand in the past, but this is different in ways that I cannot even begin to comprehend, or think about at all, really. I don’t want to consider the past, the past is gone, left behind to one day appear in biography books written by people who think that they know us but still manage to get all of our birthdays wrong. None of that matters, only the now. Your hand against mine. The music coming through the walls. The bass, the rhythm, the sex of it all. Your chest rising with each steady breath, mine barely rising at all. What are we doing? Your hand against mine. Your face, your face . . .

I know what it looks like when you’re mesmerized by a sight that you find simply incredible. I’m seeing it now. Your gaze is fixed like a laser beam on our hands, and it doesn’t waver when your fingers start to shift, but I do. Somehow, I tear my eyes away from your face. It’s only when I look down that I remember the importance of breathing.

_Stop_ , a distant voice calls in my mind, and it’s not her voice, but it could be. _Stop it now, before . . ._ It’s a thought that doesn’t need to be finished, one that I know I should listen to, but it’s not the night for rationality. You caught my eye in a mirror tonight, Edge. One look is all it takes to silence the minority. Stop? It’s already too late for that. Your hand is against mine.

But it’s not anymore. There’s space between our skin, but not for long. When you touch me again it’s with only one fingertip, featherlight as it traces a line from the nail of my index finger to the back of my hand, conducting enough heat still to not make me miss the full weight of your hand for a single moment. You circle my knuckle with that same light touch, still transfixed, before discovering the space between my index and middle finger, stroking there with the pad of one finger at first, and then four, back and forth, pausing only when I again say your name.

It comes out this time in my own voice, meaning neither _stop_ nor _go_ , it just is what it is, a name that I always seem to find myself wanting to say, and this time I think I say it only because I want you to know . . . what? Everything? Nothing? I don’t know, I don’t know, but when you glance up at me I’m glad that I said it.

We share a look that I’ve seen today only reflected in a mirror, and when you bite your lip I say your name once more, only this time it does mean _go_. You don’t need to be told twice. We look back down within half a second of each other, and it begins again.

There’s electricity in your fingertips, do you know that? I can feel it all over, not just where your fingers brush against my skin, but in other parts of my body, places I also want your hand to touch sometime soon, maybe now, maybe never, maybe later, no, definitely now. You once referred to me as a livewire, and perhaps I am, but I think you might fit the description too. Can you hear my breathing over the music? Has it actually changed or is it all in my head? There’s sex in the rhythm of the music, sex in the air. Can you hear me? Does it sound to you like I’m close to losing my fucking mind? I don’t know guilt, I don’t know what it means to say no, it’s this, just this that has me, nothing else.

Your fingertips are replaced by a single nail, which you lightly drag against the back of my hand before more pressure is applied. It’s not hard enough to leave a mark, because I don’t think you want to scratch me. You just want me to know—that it’s really there, that this is happening, that it’s not just the delusions of a hopeful man’s mind. _I know_ , I want to say but my voice has left the building like Elvis.

_I know_ , I tell you instead with my hand.

Our fingers tangle together and then come apart, my thumb finding your knuckles, stroking each bump before breaking away to rediscover your fingertips. Your hands are a gift, do you know that? They deserve this after all the good they’ve done for the world, for me, for us. You hold a guitar like your hands were crafted specifically for music, you play with my fingers as though they were a guitar.

I look up only long enough to see your throat bob. The rest of you is seemingly calm, even your breathing. I, on the other hand, just can’t seem to get enough air in, but is that little problem enough for me to stop? No. Fuck no. Can you feel the electricity? Is it coming from my fingertips too, or is it all you? Your nail this time leaves a white mark against the back of my hand that quickly turns a faint red. It doesn’t hurt, but it still makes you pause, not long enough that I think you’re going to stop completely, but still far too long for me.

_Stop_ , that distant voice whispers once more in my ear. _Don’t you dare stop_ , another voice tells me, my own this time. You’ve completely done me in, do you realize that? I don’t see how we can look back after this, yet I can’t even begin to fathom looking forward either, it’s the now that has me caught, and I don’t want it to end. It can’t. Not yet.

Your hand twitches as though you’re gearing up for more, but before you can do anything I take control of the situation, as is my nature in all aspects of life. I don’t have a plan in place, I barely have two brain cells left to bounce together. It’s pure instinct that guides me, that whispers in my ear what I should do to you even as I’m already doing it. Your pulse races against my thumb, your hand trembles minutely against mine, yet the rest of you still looks as though nothing in the world could shake that calm exterior. I want to, god do I want to have that effect on you, to feel how you might tremble all over with the right touch. What have you done to me? Why did we wait so long? What is this?

I know, I know, and I don’t care that we are in public, I don’t care if we might be caught, I don’t care about anything but this, just this.

Our hands move together until one touch stills you completely. I don’t realize what I’m doing until I feel you look at me, and it clicks. I don’t stop, though, I just keep on stroking your finger, back and forth between my own and my thumb, and when I glance up I again find that same heat from the bathroom. It’s a look that I don’t want to lose, not in a million years, although it has to end eventually, I know, but not yet, _not yet_.

“Bono . . .” you say, in a voice so quiet that I barely hear you. It’s only when you wrap your fingers around mine and press my hand high against your thigh that I realize a suggestion was being made. Your boldness is both surprising and awe-inspiring, and if I had a brain to think I might even find it in myself to be proud of you. But as it turns out, you’ve left me completely dumbstruck.

It seems all I can do is hold a gaze that has set my insides on fire, as my hand is dragged at the speed of a glacier up your thigh, higher and higher until your breath starts to quicken alongside mine. It’s pure heat that I feel all over, surrounding my hand especially, until the material of your jeans beneath my palm gives way to the cold metal of your zipper. It’s only then that I find my courage, the curl of my fingers causing your lips to part.

Out of nowhere comes a loud bang to shake the table and startle the absolute bejesus out of us. We jump up and apart like a couple of schoolkids caught making out behind the toilets, breathing fast, hands scrabbling for something, _anything_ else to hold onto. Discreet is not a word that we have a current understanding of, but I think we have an excuse, and Adam doesn’t seem to take notice of our troubles. In fact, I don’t think he could be any more oblivious if he tried.

“What are you both doing in here?” he shouts at us with the smile of a man too far gone to care—about anything, really.

The silence that follows is heavy, and I can feel you wanting to look at me just as much as I want to look at you, not only so we can come up with a mutually agreed upon cover-up story using just our eyes, but also because . . .

Fuck, I just need to look at you, and I think you’re right there with me.

We don’t, though. Not at first. Maybe it’s too soon, maybe there’s another reason, I don’t know. Adam squints at us like he’s trying to piece together some giant riddle, I still feel as though my breathing isn’t exactly where it should be, let alone my thoughts or voice, but you emerge a hero to us both by speaking up, answering Adam’s question with one simple word. “Sitting.”

You’re a man of few words when you want to be. I’ve always been in awe of that side of you. But you can talk and talk when it truly matters, and often when it doesn’t. That side of you also wows me in the most weird and wonderful way. I’m just in awe of you, period. Do you realize where my hand just was? Of course you do, of course you fucking do. Why did Adam have to interrupt? Why the fuck did it have to go down this way? We could leave. We could continue elsewhere. We could do so many things if we were brave enough, and even if we weren’t. Were we brave tonight? I’m not sure it’s the right word for it. I might even be looking for its antonym.

“Sitting?” Adam repeats, letting the word bounce around in his mind for a few turns, until it clicks and his frown turns into a smile. Fucking hell, how long have we been in here? It can’t have been more than half an hour, yet somehow Adam has gone from buzzed to completely pissed. On any other night, I might be impressed. Maybe I still am. But the rest of my focus remains firmly elsewhere, and if my hand is shaking a little, it’s because I’m pretty sure my body has decided to just continually produce excess adrenaline until my heart can’t take it and kicks over that one last time.

“Sitting,” Adam says again, this time like the word is a suggestion that he is seriously considering.

Like magic, my voice suddenly appears, but only to ask, “And what have you been doing?” instead of saying your name, over and over until you find a way to shut me up.

Adam shrugs. “Shots.”

“Ah. That makes sense.”

“Can I sit?”

You run a hand through your hair, then say, “You can take mine, if you’d like.”

“What?” I blurt out. Our eyes meet, and the look you give me is not one I know from tonight. “Come on, don’t leave.”

“No, I think I should.”

That shaky feeling just won’t let up. “Okay, fine,” I say, somehow managing to keep even a drop of desperation out of my voice. “I’ll come with you then.”

You shake your head at me. “Bono . . .”

Adam is looking back and forth like he’s watching an incredibly interesting game of tennis, but I couldn’t give a royal fuck as to what his take might be on the unfolding situation. He won’t remember it tomorrow anyway.

In a low voice I say, “We can go wherever you want.” And there it is, yet another crossing of a line. Somewhere back home there is a valid marriage certificate being kept safe, along with the love of my life. And yet . . .

_It’s alright,_ I imagine her saying to me on those nights when I’m weak and let my thoughts wander to you. _It’s alright, I just want you to be happy, love_. And it’s not a lie, I know she does, but would she react that way to _this_?

_Yes_ , I tell myself on those nights. _Yes_ , I tell myself now as I look at you, waiting for you to say to me, _what are we waiting for? Let’s go. Let’s go somewhere where we can finish what we started._

Instead, you say, “I want to go home,” and it’s not pity that I see in your smile but it’s close enough. I’m not entirely sure if it’s directed towards me, or you, or us both. You take one last sip of your forgotten drink before standing, shuffling around the table until there’s enough space for Adam, who only sits down after you gesture twice for him to do so. “Sorry.” You shrug my way, your gaze on the bottle of whiskey. “You’re going to have to find someone else to help you finish off that bottle. Maybe not Adam though, I don’t—”

“Why?” Adam loudly cuts in. “I’m—”

“Oh, _fuck_ the whiskey, Edge.”

For a moment, you simply stare at me, while I take one big gulp of said whiskey. And then you nod, smile tightly and turn to leave without even a goodbye. I last all of two seconds before leaping out of my seat and following.

“Hey!” Adam calls after me.

I spin around only to fix him with a _look_ , saying, “Do _not_ try and finish that entire bottle yourself,” before turning my attention back to chasing you. And it’s not that I believe downing a lot more drink will do Adam in completely—god knows I’ve seen him drink to excess and then some many times in the past—it’s just that I don’t really want to be the one who gets the blame tomorrow when he can’t drag his arse out of bed and into the studio. Although I probably will, because I am not Adam’s mother, therefore he doesn’t have to listen to me.

There is one silver lining that I can see, and that is the thought of that expensive bottle not going to waste. That, and it gives me something else to think about instead of overthinking what I might say when I catch up to you.

It’s a short pursuit, due to you stopping just by the door. Your body language is that of a man resigned to his fate, and it’s only when I’m at your side that you look at me. I’m not prepared for the exhaustion that I see on your face. Was that there before and I was just too boneheaded to take notice, or did it come on just like that? Is it even possible for a man to look as though he’s aged five years in a handful of minutes?

“Edge,” I say without an earthly clue of how to continue. You look at me expectantly, then sigh when all that follows is silence.

“Come on.”

It’s the bathroom that you drag me into, a semi-private place in comparison to the rest of the club, if I ignore the two dudes by the sink furthest from the door—and why shouldn’t I? They’re too busy to even look our way, much less pay any attention to some singer and his guitarist having a heart-to-heart. We might as well be alone, and it seems my heart is in agreement, as it starts again to beat just that bit faster in anticipation of . . . whatever is about to go down.

You look at the two dudes, then at the door, then back at me before again taking my arm, dragging me this time into one of the stalls before latching the lock behind us. If anyone happens to catch us coming out, I figure we can lie and say we were simply doing a couple of lines. That’s what mostly seems to go down in bathroom stalls in clubs like this . . . or so I’ve heard, anyway.

“Bono,” you start, before thinking better of it, whatever _it_ was. There’s a pause, and then you are reaching out, your arms coming up and around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug that’s almost too tight but I think needed by us both.

A day at the studio and a night surrounded by cigarette smoke isn’t enough to take away the scent of you that still lingers underneath it all—soap, aftershave, you, just you, a home away from home in so many ways, but not the one that’s been the thought of the night. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever. _Stop_ , comes that voice again, but it goes mostly unheard.

You pull me closer still somehow, and noticeably inhale through your nose. Are you breathing me in like I am to you? Is it only imperfections covered up by pricey cologne that you can smell on me, or is it something more, something that feels a lot like coming home? _Oh, Edge_ , I might write in my diary later about this very moment, _I think we might be in trouble. In fact, I’m sure of it._

You pull back only enough to give us both room to breathe, then lean back in before I can finish my first exhale as a free man. Our foreheads meet, and your hand comes up to brush against my neck but not linger, landing instead on my shoulder to stay—a safer location, certainly, but not the preferred one. I don’t complain, though, nor speak or move at all.

Your eyes are closed, which is probably for the best, as it doesn’t feel like the right moment for me to be caught looking at your mouth. Maybe back at the table, yes, maybe even right after we again part, or move closer still, but not now. There is almost an innocence to be found here that doesn’t match the thoughts coursing through my mind.

It’s over before I’m ready for it to end. “I’ve got to go, B.”

What have I got to lose? Everything and nothing. I can’t even comprehend letting you go tonight, not after what just happened. “I’m still committed to coming with you.”

A bleak smile appears on your face. “I’ve got to go home to my family,” you say, hitting the _f_ in _family_ as though it’s the most important letter of the day, and I probably should be offended that you think the emphasis is needed for the message to get through my thick head, but I’m not. Offense is the last thing that I’m feeling.

I take a step back, and then another, until my boots find the wall, countering your falling face with a smile of sorts. My aim with it is forced nonchalance, though your expression tells me that I’ve missed the mark by a country mile.  “Bono, come on, don’t—”

“What? I’m not doing anything,” I say, shrugging as though I am really nonchalant about the whole thing, a front that lasts for approximately half a second before I start ticking over.

“Look—”

“You’re the one who fucking started this, Edge.”

Your only response is to stare at me like I’ve grown another head, and in the silence that follows I wonder if maybe I’ve jumped the gun a little. Was it you that started it, really, or was it me? Or was it both of us, together?

A sense of calmness is quick to appear, although it slowly starts to again fade away when you continue to not fucking say a single thing. I raise an eyebrow as though that might be the trick to get you to talk, then throw up my hands like I’m done with you, us, and the world in general before reaching for the lock. It doesn’t budge. It will. It has to.

“No, B, wait . . . what are you doing?”

“It’s fucking _broken_!”

You look at me, look at the lock, then gently shove my hand to the side, saying, “It’s just jammed,” as though you are completely confident in such a statement being fact before even making a physical attempt yourself.

Of course, it turns out, like always, that you know best, although it takes a couple of tries before you’re successful in your endeavour. You don’t immediately open the door, however, and even keep your hand pressed against the lock as if to stop me from making a run for it. I’m not sure such a move is necessary—maybe I want to stay, maybe I want to go. Again, you’ve managed to turn my thoughts completely upside down.

“I know it might sound a bit like bullshit coming from me after . . . after all of that, but I just . . .” you trail off, shaking your head. “I just think it’s best if we take a step back and re-evaluate a few things, okay?”

You’re right. It does sound a bit like bullshit.

“Re-evaluate,” I echo. It comes out sounding like a dirty word. After everything that has happened, you want us to _re-evaluate_? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? What else _can_ I do, but retaliate in some way? “Sure thing, Edge, sounds like a plan.” Clearly, this is not what you wanted to hear, not in that tone, anyway. But unfortunately for both of us, sarcasm is all I can muster. Where is the fiery anger that I’m told I do so well? There’s a strange kind of tiredness nipping at my bones, and it’s not welcome in the least. “Can you step aside now, please? There’s a very expensive bottle of whiskey out there with my name on it.”

You move far quicker than I’m ready for. I’d half-expected some sort of protest from you, but it doesn’t come. Instead, you hold the door open for me, staying close on my heels as I leave the stall and then the bathroom.

Adam is still sitting at our table, but he isn’t alone, and I don’t want to interrupt. I don’t even really want that bottle, not now. So I just continue on through the door and into the next room, where the amount of dancers has whittled down considerably.

It seems there is no getting rid of you yet, and I’m torn over whether this is a good thing or bad. I want you to stay, I want you to get out of my fucking face for at least a good ten hours if you’re not willing to reconsider. I’ve no idea what I want, but then, I’m not entirely sure you do either, since you’ve yet to take anything that even resembles that much-needed step back.

You stand by me at the bar until I’ve finished paying, then follow me out the door and in to the warm night air. There are still a number of people about, but you pay no attention to any of them. Your focus remains on me, and I don’t know what the hell to make of it. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m going home.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” you insist, but don’t make a move to look or walk away.

“No, really, what are you doing?”

“Bono—”

“You made a choice, Edge,” I cut in. “Either commit to it or change your mind, those are your only options right now, so—”

“I think we both know there’s only one option.”

I’m not sure what would hurt more: being held down and repeatedly kicked, or you saying those words to me right now after such a night. You’re wrong, you’re right, you’re a complete and utter wanker, and it’s just not you. It doesn't feel right. Somehow, I manage a smile, though I’m sure it looks as twisted as it feels. “Then take a step back.”

This time, you do.

I barely remember the trip home, and am greeted immediately upon walking in the door by a ringing phone. I know it’s you before I even answer.

“Look, I’m really sorry, alright? I think . . .” you trail off, finding your voice again a few seconds later. “I was an arsehole tonight, wasn’t I?” I neither agree nor disagree, and the brief silence that follows is broken by your sigh. “I’ll take that as a yes. B, you have to realize how messed up this whole thing is, I mean—”

“Of course I realize that, Edge, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I never said you were, I just—”

“Please, you’ve had this whole patronizing tone about you since—”

“What? I have not.”

“You have, you fucking have, from the moment we stepped into that bathroom stall. You think you know better than me, don’t you? But you just, you don’t know, alright, you don’t know—”

“Bono—”

“—what it’s fucking _like_ to—”

“Hey, hey, B, come on,” you interrupt in a tone that is no doubt meant to be soothing, and while it doesn’t quite have that immediate effect, it still is enough to shut me up. “I do know, okay? I’m right there with you. Is that what you want to hear?”

I’m not really sure, but I speak up anyway, my voice sounding far smaller than I anticipated. “Yeah.”

There is a brief pause. “We’ve never talked about this.”

It’s not a question, just a statement of fact, yet I still respond. “No. We haven’t.”

“And yet we’ve made it this far without any problems . . . I mean, we’ve managed okay so far, right?”

“Have we?” I ask, and you don’t respond. “You can put a pot of water over a flame and watch it for ages without a single incident, only for it to boil over the second you let your guard down, Edge.”

Your breath harshes loudly through the receiver. “Look . . . please do not think I’m being patronizing when I remind you that we are married. I mean, I have a family to think about, and you . . . I think things got out of hand tonight and they shouldn’t have. And you were right, it’s my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault. Not explicitly.”

“It was. It was. I shouldn’t . . . I should have put a stop to it before anything started. I’m sorry, okay? I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You leave it at that, your voice replaced by a dial tone before I can say goodbye, or otherwise.

_Fuck you_ , I imagine myself telling you. _Fuck. You_. But I don’t think there would be much weight behind those words, though you would take them and pretend as though they meant something until we both forgot all about it come morning.

For a moment, I seriously consider calling you back, not to say what I want, but what I need. Would you even answer? You’re with your family, while I’m here alone surrounded by peeling wallpaper. It’s where you’re meant to be, isn’t it? And me? I’m just living for the night.

In bed I try and trick myself into focusing on anything that isn’t you, but I don’t get very far. Rejection is necessary, I’ve told myself time and time again, yet I’d never really imagined what it might feel like. You’re the bigger man, aren’t you? I should be proud of you for trying to protect my useless arse, to protect us both, I should be a lot of things—furious, frustrated, shamed, and more. And maybe I am, maybe I’m not, maybe you’ve finally managed to fuck me up by being your good self. It’s not fair, it’s completely reasonable, it’s not right, and yet . . .

I toss and turn for as long as I can keep it up before finally giving in, and it’s your hand, not mine, that I imagine touching me. Are you doing the same thing? Is it my hand you’re picturing, or hers, or simply your own?

_Oh, Edge_ , I start later in my diary on a fresh new page, before scribbling out those two words and writing seven directly underneath. _How long can we make it last?_

 


	2. Constellations in the Night Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here I am, like four months later, STILL not having finished this fic. The plan was to post the second half in one go, but as is often the case with me, the second half has ballooned into TOO MANY WORDS, so I'm splitting it up. Third chapter is about 2/3rds done, and I aim to have it complete within the next week and a half (aka before I go back to uni) I had hoped to write a LOT more this break, but my brain and body and mental health say no, so here we are. Love you all xx

You’re late to the studio the next day, and so is Adam, leaving Larry and I to play that torturous game of waiting. I pass the time by alternating between trying (and failing) to make a guitar _truly_ sing and eating my weight in Oreo cookies and other sweet things that are desperately needed after such a night, while Larry glowers and sighs and checks his watch and mutters before going to sit at his kit. There, he expresses himself with a whole lot of noise, in that particular way that only he can do.

On any other day, this behaviour from you might have worried me. The Edge, not being the first one to the studio? It’s almost unheard of. But today, today . . .

I honestly don’t know how you do it, making me so conflicted, so certain about you, and me, and us, day after day. I want you to stay the fuck away from me, I want you here right by my side, I think I know what I want. A distraction is needed, serenity is needed, there’s a racket belting through the room, through my mind, _I’m right there with you_ , but are you? 

I split another Oreo and lick out the cream filling like a child might, and when I glance back up there you are, looking down at me with a timid smile that makes me want to pelt you with half of a cookie.

 _Fuck you_ , I imagined myself telling you last night, before briefly leaving that anger behind in search of reason and hope. What would your reaction be to those two words? Would they leave a mark? Be brushed off in a matter of minutes? Or would you throw them right back in my face, and start something new? It’s so easy to imagine us laughing about most things in life once they’ve properly passed us, arguments included, but sometimes I just don’t know . . .

A line can be so hard to see until you’ve crossed it, and then what’s stopping you from going further?

“Forget to set an alarm?” I say in response to your greeting. That smile of your wavers, and so does my voice.

“Sorry. But I’m here now.”

“I can see that. I do have eyes, The Edge.”

You don’t respond, a wise decision on your part, one that deflates my anger and leaves me wanting more. To hear you raise your voice my way is almost as rare as a sighting of Halley’s Comet, and some days I crave it, needle you for a reaction, only to be left mildly in despair when your anger does appear. It’s not fear of you, of course—it never could be—but of the situation itself.

Deep down, I think we both know that it’s completely warranted when you yell at me like you do, that I’ve really fucked it all up and deserve whatever you can think to throw my way. And maybe I want that now, for you to shout, to scream, to belittle me for my attitude and make me regret everything and anything. Leave me feeling guilty for it all, give me an excuse to _truly_ retaliate.

Instead, you simply pass me in silence to find your guitar and settle down in the same chair that you made yours yesterday, where you soon pick up that same song that wasn’t there yet, not even close, but still, it sure might be special once it’s done—isn’t that what I’d said to you?

It was, and I’d meant every word of it. Your sound, your shifting fingers, your focused expression . . . there’s little else in life that astonishes me more.  Nothing has changed, everything has changed, I watch you just as I did before your hand found mine to hold, to stroke, to guide. Larry? Forget about Larry, he might as well be on another continent.

It’s just the two of us together in a room. I can still feel the sex in the music, in a melody lacking the drumbeat, the bass. The silence between us doesn’t matter when its filled in such a way. I watch your fingers move, listen to you play.

In the past, I’ve often been compelled to close my eyes and just absorb you, you and your music, with my one focused sense, while craving to touch, to taste, to smell but rarely to see you. It’s not necessary when there’s a painted canvas inside my brain, detailing so many expressions, so many smiles.

It’s also too much on some days, and it’s too much today. I watch you play now, and I want to cry.

Do you know that I know? That I’ve seen you close your eyes too sometimes when I sing, when I hit that one note that makes me feel like I could fly, that I could have it all, if only I were able to forget about all those countless times that I was out of tune, out of luck?

What I view as transparency you label as _managing okay_. The two of us absorbing each other, surrounded by our bandmates, our producers, and anyone who just happened to wander into our studio by chance. Your gaze in a mirror, your hug that lingers, the heat of your body, _I guess one more drink won’t hurt_ , an answered phone at three am, four am, exasperation but never anger, your closed eyelids, your smell, you.

And just like that, I’m out of my chair and leaving the room, and you, behind me. As I make it through the studio I attempt to silently congratulate myself for walking as though I am completely unbothered by life—just taking a leisurely stroll, as it were, and thank _you_ for asking, nobody—and keeping a completely neutral expression on my face, while utter chaos reigns upstairs.

On any given day, I wonder so much about you. Right now, I’m fixated on whether you watched me leave, and if so, did you realize I had no other choice? It was either walk out or move closer, and you’ve made your thoughts on the latter idea clear—not perfectly, more stumbling, but still those words of yours, the suggestion that we take a step back, are impossible to shake less than a day later.

I head into the bathroom, where the mirror serves as an instant reminder. The entire studio does, really, from the chairs that you have sat in to the mugs you’ve drunk cold neglected coffee from, but in here . . .

My reflection is the only one in the mirror this time around, and it’s a little bit startling.

There is a certain age where a person can no longer physically get away with being sleep-deprived, and it looks like I’ve passed it. When did _that_ happen? Unironed laundry comes to mind as I look in the mirror, pinks mixed with greys mixed with darks mixed with off-whites mixed with reds—an absolute winning combination, complimented by dull blue and a jawline hidden by scruff. They’ll never put me on the cover of _Rolling Stone_ magazine again looking like this, and it’s all your fault, you know, just yours . . . but maybe also mine.

It’s us, isn’t it? It’s just always us.

And it seems you’re determined to prove my point on the matter. When the door opens I know it’s you without looking. You give yourself away in so many ways, did you know that? But so do I, I’m sure.

“Hi,” you say in a tone so casual it must be fake.

“Hi.”

 _Shockingly_ , its only silence that follows such a stimulating exchange. I head to take care of nature though it’s a matter that’s not even close to being urgent, but since I’m sure as hell not going to be the first one to start up a dialogue I figure I should do something to busy myself. Besides, maybe this way you’ll believe that I came in here for a reason that wasn’t you, though I have my doubts.

With a quiet patience that makes up a giant part of who you are, you wait until I’ve finished and am back at the sink, only speaking up as I draw out the simple task of drying one’s hands. It’s not that I don’t want to have to face the music and acknowledge you man to man, though, I just believe in the importance of getting right in between each finger, one at a time.

“Let’s go for a walk,” you say. From your voice, I gather you’re expecting an argument that you’re certain you’ll win. Your expression tells me more of the same. And you already look tired, so damn drained from it all. You’re expecting a _no_. You’re expecting so much more.

To your surprise, I offer you a four-letter word instead:

“Okay.”

It’s obvious as we make our way through the hallway that you’re curious as to _why_. Not just regarding my sudden obedience, however, but in general. Why last night, why now? Why not a year ago? More? There had been a chance in Toronto, in Paris—or was it Berlin?—in Dublin, of course, and even earlier, in Dublin again, back in my shoebox of a bedroom. So many moments have passed us by without fanfare, without a single conversation about it, or barely a touch that could be considered significant.

So why now?

There are some things I just cannot answer, though on the matter of obedience, it may have been pity, I suppose, or my searching for a win by proving your expectations of me to be wrong. Honestly, the main reason I’ll never confess to you _why_ in this instance is because I doubt I’ll ever know for sure.

I’m a complicated fellow, Edge. You know this about me already.

“I gave Larry some homework to keep him busy while we’re gone. He wasn’t too impressed when I told him we were taking a break, but . . .” You shrug, looking as though you did have more to say on the matter, but the necessary words had gone and fallen out of that big brain of yours. I offer only more silence instead of a lifeboat, and perhaps I am being petty, but maybe I don’t care.

Still, you smile at me like you have my number as you hold the front door open, and just like that, we’re free of the studio, free of being confined together by so many walls.

Somehow, I feel even more trapped.

I think you might have broken me for good this time, and you’ve done it by doing almost nothing. Though can I _really_ throw accusations your way when it’s mostly my own brain causing the uproar? Maybe yes, maybe no, we’ll find out in time, won’t we?

At least, I imagine we will. Time has a funny way of affecting us all, no matter how hard we fight.

I don’t know where you’re taking me, nor do I know why. What’s your endgame here? Do you even have one? We pass my Harley, and then Larry’s, but when I start toward the road you grab my arm and pull me back.

Your definition of the word _walk_ must differ from mine (and the Oxford English Dictionary’s), as it’s to your car that I’m directed, your passenger door that you leave me standing by as you make your way around the other side of the car. Our eyes meet over the roof, and when I raise an eyebrow you simply say, “Get in.”

“Why?”

“Bono, don’t make this harder than it has to be, alright?”

“That’s what I do best, though,” I say even as I open the door to slide inside.

“Don’t I know it,” you mutter only when you’re behind the wheel and certain I’ll hear it.

I could respond with vitriol, but I don’t. For once in my life, I choose to be the better man and instead throw an accusation your way, my voice sickly-sweet as I ask, “Are you kidnapping me, Edge?”

You don’t reply, but that tight smile of yours that appears as you turn up the radio tells me more than enough. It’s a _yes_ of sorts, yet as it is you doing the kidnapping and not some deranged fan or enemy or anyone else on the planet bar my wife (although some days I feel like she’s tempted), my thoughts immediately turn south as opposed to fixating on all the ways in which I might be murdered. And that frustrates me. _You_ frustrate me, you wanker. Look how quickly you can make me forget all about my anger and resentment.

One apparent road trip that was pushed onto me under the pretense of a fucking lie, and I turn easy. How is it you can have such an effect on me?

I don’t even know whether your intention is for me to take this . . . whatever this is the way that I am, or even if there _is_ an intention in your mind. Perhaps you don’t know what you’re doing, and you left that room without knowing why, just that you had to follow.

I get that. And I sympathise if it is the case, but part of me still wants to snip at you for a while longer, take out my frustration the only way I can think to try.

No, there’s another way, and there I go again, following my mind straight down into the gutter. If you knew the kind of things I imagine us doing sometimes . . .

Well, maybe I should tell you, maybe I shouldn’t, I think I know what to do. But I don’t. Instead, I just watch you watching the road, your fingertips rapping on the wheel to the beat of _You Give Love A Bad Name_ , the rest of your body tense. You know you’re being watched, and it’s making you—what? Uncomfortable? Nervous? Something else entirely? Are you right there with me, Edge? Have you already changed your mind after only one fucking night?

I hope you have. I truly do.

Am I supposed to feel guilty for wanting something that feels like a necessity?

There’s only one way to answer that question. But right now, I don’t want to hear it. _Lie to me_ , I want to say to you, but can’t. _Tell me no, tell me everything that’s churning in that majestic brain of yours. Just give me_ something, _Edge_.

You don’t speak up. The radio goes from Bon Jovi to Aerosmith to Van Halen, masking the silence between us as we drive. I feel like I’m moments away from jumping out of my skin. There is too much noise happening, and it’s mostly inside my head.

I picture you pulling into every hotel that we pass and checking us in under some ridiculous name, _no no only one bed will be necessary, thank you very much_ , and I resent myself for glancing back to take a final look at the _vacancy_ signs after leaving each one in the dust, if only to keep my daydream alive just a little longer. What would your reaction be if I were to open the door and jump out? You’d stop and come for me, wouldn’t you? Of _course_ you would, and then we’d both be outside, and who would have control? Not you. Not anymore.

You’d have to follow me, wherever I wanted to go. And I would get you talkin’ then. Why aren’t you now? I can’t even hear you breathing.

You finally look at me when I shut off the radio. I shrug like it’s my only excuse for my actions, and you grant me a faint smile before turning all your attention back to the traffic. I can hear you breathing now, but it’s still not enough.

“Where are we going?”

“Not far now,” you reply, and leave it at that. If only I had smuggled an Oreo cookie to throw at you for real this time.

“Real informative, Edge. I wasn’t after specific details at all, so don’t worry.”

You don’t respond—again, a wise choice—and we lapse back into silence for the remainder of our journey. I’ve forgotten my watch, so it’s hard to know whether it takes another minute or so to get where we’re going, or a fucking century. I do have my suspicions, though, and they’re not ideal.

It’s only when we come to a complete stop that I glance away from you to look out the window and place our destination. When I see where we are, I can’t help but smile. Damnit. No, damn _you_.

You turn off the ignition before saying, “Stay here for a minute.”

“Why?”

“I won’t be long,” you insist, reaching for the door handle.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I retort. The only response comes from the slamming of the door behind you. “Fucking hell.”

As I watch you walk toward the building, the urge to get out and follow (your instructions be damned!) makes a persuasive appearance, and I deliberate on doing so for so long that it surprises me. Indecisiveness is not a trait that I’m often plagued by, but here I am with my fingers itching to open the door handle and my gaze fixed firmly on the building as I chew at my lip and wonder, _do or do not_ , isn’t that what Yoda said? Two choices, you wanker, it’s not that hard, so pick one!

And just like that, the choice is taken away from me. I feel like a fucking idiot as I watch you walk back towards the car, and nod when you give me a thumbs up, but the thought doesn’t occur to actually make a move until you’ve opened my door for me.

There is a chance that I left my brain on the dancefloor of The Flaming Colossus last night. It sure would explain . . . pretty much all of my choices in life since then.

“Come on,” you say. I dutifully get out of the car, watch as you lean inside to pop open the glovebox, and raise an eyebrow when you emerge holding a brown paper bag containing something a little bit fun.

“Why, Edge, whatever do you have there?”

“A peacemaker.”

It’s not what I expect you to say, and I don’t know how to respond. So I don’t. Silence reigns between us once more as we enter the building and head for the elevator. Foolishly, I look for any evidence of a room key on your person, but already suspect there isn’t one. You wouldn’t have phrased it that way had your intentions been indecent. I know you—to make peace is to talk, not touch.

But you still brought me to a hotel, and that’s got to count for something. At least part of my fantasy has come true.

It’s not a room with one bed that you’re taking me to, however, but the rooftop, one that we’ve come to know quite well. Serenity paired with an incredible view, the perfect place for peace to be made. I resent you for it, and I don’t. Volatile, thy name is Bono. Indecisive, thy name is also—

“I checked to make sure that it was alright we come up here,” you tell me, thankfully interrupting my ridiculous mind as we step out into the open air once more.

“They know us here.”

“I know, but I still had to check.”

“And exactly why could I not come with you to do so?” I ask, and you don’t have an answer for me. “If you were trying to surprise me, then I suggest a blindfold next time, Edge. I look out the car window and see us parked in front of the Million Dollar Hotel, of _course_ I’m immediately going to assume we’re coming up here.” Do you know that I’m lying? I can’t read you when there’s so much glare on your face. “I think I’ve found a flaw in your plan.”

You take a step back and your face becomes a little bit clearer. I can see the sun burning in your eyes. Jesus, Edge, why did you bring me up _here_ of all places? We’re so alone, so high above it all, our heads might as well be in the clouds. It’s the perfect place for anything to happen.

The first time we came here it was as a band with Anton and his camera in tow. The last time it had been just the two of us, flat on our backs with a bottle of vodka between us, mapping imaginary constellations in the night sky. How is this visit going to pan out? Do you even have an actual plan?

I don’t think you do, but your poker face gives nothing away. You lead me across the rooftop until we’re directly behind that famous sign. I sit down when you do, drawing my knees up while you cross yours. We’re side to side, your knee bumping my thigh only when I bring it down far enough, an action that I have no excuse for if you were to ask _why_ , but thankfully—or regrettably, perhaps—you don’t.

Our old friend silence graces us with its presence once more, but there’s only so much that I can take. You’re the patient one, not me.

“So?”

“Hmm?”

“You brought me up here for a reason, Edge. Didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, not immediately, anyway. No, a sigh comes first, followed by an assault on your left eyelid with one unrelenting finger. When you finally stop rubbing, I don’t have to look closely to know that your eye has turned watery, or that your lid is blushing and your white is now streaked through with red. I know you, even without looking. Even when you’re not speaking. I think I already know what you wish to say to me. And I want you to stay quiet, I want you to say it all, I don’t think I really know, Edge.

Your gaze stays fixed on the sign above as you finally rediscover your voice, saying, “I did a lot of thinking last night, about what happened at the bar. And about what we discussed on the phone after. Bono . . .” You look at me then, and I wish you hadn’t. “I want us to be okay. And I just kept thinking about how, you know, it’s—we come up here or go to a pub or a movie or, well, anywhere . . . nowhere, even, and it’s just easy, isn’t it? And it should be, even now. Especially now, it _needs_ to be. I—we’re stronger than this. I mean—”

 “You think we were being weak last night?”

“No! No, I just mean . . . look, together—”

“That notion of our ‘togetherness’ only exists when it suits you though, doesn’t it?”

“Bono,” you snap, only to catch yourself right before that frustration boils over. And isn’t that a pity, when I want those fucking fireworks? “What I’m trying to say is that I think we are strong enough to get through this, alright? I know you’re pissed at me right now, but—”

 “You’ve barely given me a chance to voice my fucking opinion about this, you know,” I cut in. “ _You’re_ the one who decided we needed to take a step back, that we’ve apparently been managing this just fine up until last night, and now you’re telling me that we will get through this, like it’s an absolute that we should move past it instead of—of, I don’t know . . .” You’re not looking at me. I cannot fucking believe you. “Do you even care what I think?”

“I do, of course I do,” you say in that tone I know so well, one that I hear only when you’re determined to calm me down. “Tell me. What are you thinking, B? Talk to me.”

I open my mouth to fire off a torrent of words, some abusive, the rest closer to desperate, but luckily for you, silence looks to be my only weapon of choice. It doesn’t guilt you nearly as well as any of the thoughts that are ticking through my head might. In fact, what you’re giving me right now is concern. Are you worried about me, or us? Or is it both?

“I’m . . . not angry,” I finally manage after an eternity of self-reflection, and it’s true. I was, yes, once upon a time—thirty, forty seconds ago, even—but I’ve moved on from that now, upgraded to a better state of mind.

“Hurt, then.” You say it like you know it’s the truth. Sometimes, I resent the fact that you know me so well.

“It’s better than being angry.”

“No, it’s not.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. You respect this by giving me space, allowing me time to think, and handing over a bottle of whiskey.

“I’m not saying we act as though nothing happened,” you speak up once I’ve had my fill, words that sound like a lie. “Ignoring things never solves any problem. I think if we acknowledge it happened, we can grow from there, you know?” In the pause that follows, you watch me, waiting. But there’s nothing that I have to offer you, nothing that you want, anyway. You sigh when I take another mouthful of whiskey. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Me neither.”

You squint up at the sky like it holds all the answers, then turn to nod at the bottle in my hand. “Feel like sharing?”

I do, I don’t, I hand it over without picking a side. The whiskey is yours, after all. It’s only fair. Besides, I think you need it too. Something is off, and it’s not just the entire situation. Your voice is too measured, too calm. If it were anyone else I might consider that you’re just completely unbothered, that you don’t care enough to get worked up, but we know each other so well, don’t we?

When did you start pretending that you were completely fine? Was it a process over the course of some years, or did it just happen overnight, like a switch had been flicked in that brain of yours? Aren’t you tired of it?

You must be. I only have to look in your eyes to know. Surely you have to know by now that you can’t fool me?

For a while we are silent, watching the clouds move as we pass the bottle back and forth. My best course of action, I figure—at least for the immediate future, anyway—is to try and push it all out of my mind, to not think at all about anything important, anything pertaining to you. And for thirty seconds or so, it almost works, but then I give in, take one sneaky peek through that buckling door, and it all falls to shit.

There’s a question I need answered, one that I wanted to ask you last night on the phone, today in the car, in Toronto, in Paris, in Dublin all those years ago, and now, especially now. I want you to respond with yes, I want you to say no, it’s probably best for me if I don’t know. But I can’t _not_ say it. It might be my only chance, though I hope it’s not. Does that make me selfish?

It does. It fucking does.

I’m sorry, Edge, but I just can’t help myself.

 “I just, I need to know. For my own peace of mind, Edge. Last night, when I . . . did you want me?”

 “Bono—”

I’m snatching your hand out of the air before I even know it, to hold, to pull closer until you have no choice but to truly look my way. Briefly, your gaze flickers down to our hands, but it’s not you who lets go first.

Still, I don’t expect you to answer, or to keep looking my way as you do. “I did.”

And there it is: definite confirmation.

I have absolutely no idea what to do with it. Rejoice? Get absolutely fucking shitfaced? Neither options fit the current climate, though you’re already wary as you watch me, like you’re expecting one or the other. And then you just look confused, like my non-reaction has turned your world upside down.

 _Sorry to disappoint_ , I want to tell you, but of course I don’t.  _I know, I was surprised too. I never expected to feel so . . . empty. But here we are._

“It wasn’t the first time, was it?”

I expect nothing, or a lie, or at least a carefully timed pause, but you surprise me by responding immediately. “You know it wasn’t.”

“I do.” Of course I do.

You sigh and hand me the bottle. Jesus, what are you trying to prepare me for _now_? “I don’t mean to make you feel guilty or anything, or act like the biggest bastard in the world,” you say, “but my marriage . . . I don’t need another nail in the coffin. And neither do you.”

It’s a quiet walk back to the car. I’m not seething but I’m not calm either, bursting with ridiculous emotions that I just don’t know what to do with in one moment, empty the next. It’s a sick cycle that I’m caught in, but at my side you seem just as troubled. I should feel vindicated by this, but I’m not.

Not once in my life, even those times that you made me see red, have I ever wanted you to suffer in any way.

“Take me home,” I tell you once we’re back in the car. “I’m not in the mood to record.”

“Your bike—”

“I’ll have it picked up. Take me home.”

The radio stays off as we begin our journey to Bel Air. I watch the traffic at first, then the people and buildings that pass us by in streaks of colour, before finally giving in and looking your way. Your jaw briefly tightens, a sure sign that you know you’re being watched.

“I’m sorry,” you speak up when we hit a red light.

“What for?”

 _Everything_ , your expression says to me. “I shouldn’t have said that, about your marriage. It’s not my place.”

At last, we’re back on the same page about something. There’s no need to agree with you, though, as I can read your regret loud and clear. Why guilt you further? Instead, I say, “Ali and I are fine,” words that feel a touch too defensive.

It’s not meant as a _my marriage is great while we_ allll _know there’s trouble in paradise in your neck of the woods_ type of dig, but it comes out sounding like one. You don’t call me out for this, however, nor do you tack on the _now_ that belongs at the end of my statement.

“I know.” You sigh, shaking your head—at yourself, or the state of my marriage, or the entire fucking situation we’re in? It’s impossible to know for sure. “Sometimes I hear myself say things recently, and I can’t believe it’s me speaking. I don’t . . .”

“What?”

You take your time to answer, and when the words finally do come, they sound forced from deep within your chest. “I don’t feel like me.”

“That’s LA for you. No one feels like themselves, people come here looking to fabricate their entire lives.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you mean.”

You nod, but don’t respond. This time, I’m prepared for the silence, and welcome it. Not because I want the opportunity to overthink. I just need a break from you, you and your voice and words that make me want to hug you and tell you comforting things, or get you to laugh, or do so much more. And if I can’t physically get away—not for the next twenty or so minutes, anyway, unless I get out and walk—then silence is my only option at a break.

It won’t last. I’m sure of it. Even now, I can see you slowly building up to something, from the tension in your shoulders to the frown that just won’t leave you. You need reassurance that, right now, I cannot give. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in five minutes, when you work up the courage to talk a little more. Right now, we only have silence.

Still, I stay looking at you. It almost seems as though I’m stuck doing so.

You’re much more interesting than the rest of the world that surrounds me currently, do you know that? Even now. And a part of me wants to tell you . . . so much. Everything. Nothing. That I get it, I do, no matter how much I pretend otherwise.

I understand what it means to have your hands tied. To know that the cost is just too great, no matter how much you want something. I’ve been there, I’ve weighed my options and come up with no solution that appeals to both what I want and need, and ultimately went with what was right. We’re not so different, you and I. You’re trying to do the same thing, I’ve no doubt.

But I think I’ve changed too, in a different way. Is it _really_ doing the right thing if regret is so quick to appear whenever I think about the choice I made? Regret and relief, sometimes they go hand in hand, don’t they? Yet they are two very different things.

It’s hard not to wonder how I’ll feel about it all in fifty years from now. Will I be glad I never told you in Paris that night what I wanted, that I put her and our marriage first like I had to, no, _needed_ to during such a rocky time? Or will I regret not taking the chance?

Sometimes, I think it might be possible to have my cake and eat it too. You, though, I’m just not sure. If Aislinn found out . . .

Selfishly, there are days when it’s hard to care about the consequences. And it’s on those days that I cannot seem to look past the inevitability of so many things in life. Some things end, others begin. Delaying what’s supposed to happen will only get you so far.

I want to tell you all of this, and more. But I don’t. It’s not the day for it, not for you, anyway.

You say my name then, and leave it at that. No wise insight, no question without an answer follows. Just my name. Sometimes, I think you say it simply because you like how it feels, how it sounds in your own voice. Your lips coming together only to quickly part, your tongue briefly meeting the roof of your mouth, two syllables, so many meanings. I can relate to finding enjoyment in a single word, though my lips don’t meet while doing so, and no matter how many ways I find to curve your name into something more, there’s still only one syllable to work with.

“Edge.”

Your gaze flickers over to me for the briefest of moments, and then it’s back on to the traffic. I imagine at least five different things that you want to say to me in the short time it takes for you to actually speak up, but it seems you’re dedicated to disappointing me today. “They’ll wonder about you when I return to the studio alone, you know.”

“Good for them.”

In the pause that follows, I’m almost sure that I can hear that vein in your forehead throbbing. It’s only me that can really get that thing going, isn’t it? I don’t live to annoy, you know. It’s just that sometimes I can’t help myself. “I’ll just tell them you’re sick,” you mutter.

“Fine.”

“Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” You nod like this is precisely the conversation that you were looking to have, nothing more or less.

Silence returns between us, and I come up with three more things that you want to say to me, to add to the previous five, and go from there. When we pull up in front of the disaster building I currently call home, I have an entire scene constructed in my head, featuring an extensive conversation about one specific topic, and actions to support it. The thought of returning to reality makes my chest ache. You turning to look at me only makes it worse.

“Are you going to be alright?”

I want to say yes, but you became an expert long ago at calling me on my bullshit. “You know me,” I say instead.

You nod. “Yes, I do.” I can see that brain of yours ticking away as you stare me down. It’s not just concern that you’re giving me right now. “That’s why I asked.”

What can I say to that? Not a damn thing, nothing that you’ll believe, anyway. It’s not worth lying with you, though that’s rarely stopped me in the past.

Mostly, I do it just to see how long you’ll let me hang myself with my own verbal bullshit before the word _enough_ emerges as a saviour to us both. But you do quite often smile through it all, even when I don’t deserve it, and that’s why, Edge. That’s why I come up with all my little stories.

It’s not a smiling day, however, for you or me. I can tell that even without arranging my own noose. So I don’t try, and you don’t stop me when I get out of the car.

I expect you to speed away the instant that door slams behind me. I tell myself that storming straight on inside is the best way to handle the current situation. Neither things eventuate, and when I finally do turn back towards the car you’ve already wound down the passenger window.

You ask, “Are you alright?” like you think, this time, I’ll have an answer that you want to hear. And in that imagined conversation in my head, I did lay it all out and you received it in a way that could only ever happen away from the real world. No, in the real world you’d tell me no. In the real world . . .

We’d be right here, as we are.

I lean in without giving the idea a second thought. “How long can we make it last, Edge?”

It’s not the day for such questions, yet it’s too late. And it’s so hard to regret my actions, even when your face falls. I at least expect _forever_ to be your response, or something like _as long as we have to_ , or desperate nonsense, _pure_ nonsense, but all you give me is stony silence.

I step back only when you put the car into gear. You drive off without saying another word, and I watch the car until it disappears from view. _A colossal fuckup, one of my better ones_ , I might say by way of apology next time I see you, or I might just act like nothing has happened, nothing has changed. Fall in line, pretend like you want us to, because we both know that your insistence of acknowledging this thing between us is _bullshit_. You want us to forget it ever happened, not try and grow from the experience, don't you?

We’ll see how I feel tomorrow. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll surprise us both by doing something else entirely, or perhaps you will. A lot can happen in one night, especially when it’s spent reflecting on so many things.

The place is eerily quiet, I discover after finding the energy to shuffle on inside. I know I’m alone, but still I do the rounds, checking for signs of life and feeling conflicted with the outcome. I don’t want company, but it’s an outrage that there is no one here to ask me how I’m doing, to listen to my woes. Would you come if I asked?

Right now, I have my doubts, but I am not you, Edge. Try as I might, I can never be one hundred percent sure what is going on in that mind of yours.

I wish I could.


	3. Ricochet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, this took far longer than I'd hoped and I've now ran out of uni holidays, but I'm super excited to have this done just in time to work my brain in a different way. Thank you to all that have stuck with this, it's rather long but this is who I am as a person. I hope you enjoy watching me abuse ellipses, em dashes and italics xxx

In another life, I might have been an actor. I can walk the walk, talk the talk when I want to—or rather, when doing so has been deemed necessary. I can pretend so well, can’t I? There are some things in life I can do better than you. I know, it came as a surprise to me as well, but I can’t change facts, no matter how hard I often try.

We made it through a day at the studio with no one cornering us to demand that we explain our brooding selves, because I had the sense to dictate the room, and you to quietly follow until it came time to lose yourself trying to perfect that one elusive sound, seemingly oblivious to my not-staring the entire time. It was as though nothing had changed. Same shit, different day, as long as one didn’t think to take a gander inside my ridiculous brain and see the commotion happening there.

I felt like Cathy’s ghost, pleading _let me in!_ whenever I glanced your way and wondered. What would your reaction have been had I knocked on your head like it was a window and said that? _Let me in, Edge, tell me what you’re thinking and if it’s about me, please. I’m so cold . . ._

When I left the studio last night, you had still been in your corner, frowning down at your guitar. When I called your house today after lunch, your voice was thick with sleep—apparently, you’d only made it home around dawn. That little nugget of information hadn’t come as a surprise to me.

“Do you want to come over later?” I had asked in a tone that matched past casual calls, though my reason for reaching out had been anything but. No matter how hard a person tries, the act of pretending is only superficial. It’s when you go deep within that you see the real truth. _My_ real truth. There’s only one way that I can think to describe it, but the word _desperate_ has always seemed so . . . pathetic.

I’d just wanted to see you again, that was all.

“Why?”

“It’s hot, and we have a pool.”

“So do I.”

“Right. But do you have more beer than you can handle?”

“I was thinking about heading to the studio, so—”

“It’s our day off. Live a little,” I’d cut in, and you hadn’t responded. “Look, if you want us to be okay, as you put it, this is how we’re going to do that. Not by fucking off to the studio as a way of avoiding—”

“I’m not—”

“Then I’ll see you when you get here.” I hadn’t given you a chance to respond—a mistake, I found, after spending the entire hour and forty-five minutes that followed my hanging up on you speculating and worrying. Yet when that knock had come at the door, I’d very nearly fled on foot. Like a fucking coward.

But I hadn’t done a runner, and neither had you, and now here we are, alone together with the sun beating down upon us. I’ve long since given up searching for ways to fill the silence, and you’ve taken the opportunity to float away from me. A wise choice on your part, if I’m to be honest.

Sometimes, I too would appreciate the chance to get away from myself.

There’s little else I can think to do but watch you, and drink. It’s a winning combination that became one of my favourite pastimes early on, before I realized why.

Out there on your inflatable mat, you look almost content, and I’m glad for it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, even now. I think we both know you don’t take nearly as much time as you should to breathe, just breathe. I hope you’re doing that now, that you’re not masking your process of overthinking with an expression of peacefulness.

I can’t remember the last time it was just you and I, hanging out by the pool. It’s a damn shame, really, as while I do prefer the beach there are obvious advantages to our current location. No seaweed, sand or curious glances our way. No friends nor family, just the two of us, completely alone. Without all the distractions, you don’t think to open your eyes, and I can watch you without fear of judgement or getting caught.

You were made for the water, you know. Your arms, your shoulders. I think God crafted you to be an all-rounder, and he should be proud of his work. My feet belong on the ground, my head in the clouds. I could write a book about our differences, another about our similarities. I could submit to publishers the diary I’ve been keeping while in this city and tell them it’s about life, love, a longing for both, and lie when they ask if it’s about you.

It wouldn’t be a total lie, after all. You’ve only been the inspiration for perhaps half of what’s been written on those pages _. Just don’t read between the lines_ , I would tell them, and you, and even myself.

The world would be far less complex if words and phrases and declarations could only mean one thing, if there were no hidden meanings to take into account, but _Jesus_ , wouldn’t life be such a bore?

 _Oh, Edge_ , I wrote at the top of one page, two words that meant _yes_ , and _no_ , and _why?_ and so much more. _Oh, Edge_ , I think now as I watch you out on the water, and the voice in my head is just as complicated as words on paper.

You soon drift close enough for me to grasp the inflatable mat and draw you near, until plastic is bumping my submerged legs. “We’re having a gathering tonight,” I say when you open your eyes to squint my way. “A few people, some drinks and music, all coming together to form a potentially raging party. Are you in?”

Your eyes immediately declare your true thoughts on the idea, but your mouth betrays you completely. “I guess I can stay. I mean, I’m here already, so . . . but it would just be for a while. You know,” you take a pause that’s almost long enough to be considered dramatic, “family obligations.” It’s code for _I’m skating on thin ice already_ , and your tight smile does nothing to shield you from my scrutiny—if anything, it only makes me want to look deeper.

Oh, Edge, you really are shite at pretending sometimes, aren’t you?

But I want you to stay. I want you to . . .

I just want you here. And I realize I’m being selfish, for this and that and so much more. I resent myself for it, and I don’t.

It’s a peculiar state to find oneself in, the in-between. Like walking on a tightrope, being determined not to teeter one way or the other, because if I do then God help me, I might have to start thinking about more than myself, face up to the consequences of my wants and needs and don’t-haves—not yet, anyway. But if I keep pushing, if I keep playing the part of the travelling salesman . . .

Nope. It’s too late. I’ve teetered slightly to one side. The damage is already done by the time I right myself. And I’m thinking about how easy it is to ruin so many lives when I say, “You don’t have to,” how it would only take one night, hell, one _moment_ even, of weakness to fuck up everything we’ve worked so hard to keep alive. It’s guilt that’s fleeting, that is overtaken once more by egotism.

To think, there are some who consider me to be a good person. I’m not. Not when it comes to you. But it’s not your fault that I’m such a bastard, Edge.

It never could be.

“No, I want to,” you insist. It’s a damn lie—I _know_ you.

“Do you?”

“Bono.” You shake your head. “Don’t make this harder—”

“You know I can’t help myself,” I cut in, and we both pause to consider the implications. It’s not like there are hidden meanings in _everything_ I say, just some things, and maybe this one thing.

You know me. It’s just like that song says . . . Sugar Pie. Or should I call you Honey Bunch? Or neither? I can already imagine the disdain you would show me if I were to try and give you yet another nickname, or a pet name, as one might call them.

God, it’s obvious I’ll never be able to pull off such sappiness, not even while writing lyrics (though maybe sometimes with Ali), but really, why would I want to? I’ve made it this far in life doing what I do, why not leave it to those who can own it and make sentiment theirs to proudly flaunt?

But I can’t help but wonder if you remember that night we tried it anyway.

Karaoke is either a best friend or a foe, depending on the night. I remain undecided which it had been on that one particular evening.

You had barely known the words, while I’d come prepared—a refreshing change of pace for us— and had spent the entirety of the number singing and smiling your way, and laughing when you chimed in during the chorus to ever-so-enthusiastically yell _I can’t help myself_ into the microphone for the benefit of people in the room and three streets over.

“Did you like that?” you had slurred once the music came to an end. Remember that night? Of _course_ you wouldn’t, you had been pissed as a fart, and I your eternally amused companion.

“Glorious, The Edge,” I can recall telling you while possibly slinging an arm around your neck, though memory is a fickle thing, especially when emotions and feelings come in to play to reshape your entire back catalogue of thoughts pertaining to people, places, you. There is a chance I barely touched you at all that night. It’s doubtful, though. “You’re a fucking superstar, you know that?”

 “I know,” you say now after a bout of overthinking, and leave it at that. _I know_ , like you’re Han fucking Solo. Like you understand me implicitly. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, I think you’re somewhere in between. If you really understood me, then you would get that I’m no good at letting some ideas go.

But then, perhaps I’m wrong and you have realized that. And that’s why you’re trying so hard to make me believe otherwise.

I let go of your mat, but you don’t float away. Instead, you slide off into the water far more gracefully than I ever could, and emerge with your chest hair glistening to come and sit by me poolside. There are droplets of water making their way down your arm, your stomach, your pale skin. I aim for completely oblivious, and fail at this simple task. I think you know I was looking. Your expression shifts through a handful of emotions before turning back into that familiar mask. Who do you think you’re fooling?

You could ask me the same question.

I finish my bottle of beer in record time, then flounce into the pool before you can come up with something to say—an accusation, for instance, some remark about me ogling you. Or worse, a change of subject.

The cold water is a shock to the system. A welcome relief. I keep going until my fingers brush the bottom, until my lungs begin to burn. When I do finally surface, I can’t see you, not at first. It’s only when I’ve finished gasping for breath that the world seems to tilt back to where it should be. It takes a few blinks to make my eyes stop stinging, to turn you from a shapeless blur into the man I know.

You don’t glance away when I assume you will. What is that expression of yours? I think I know. Another combination, another handful of emotions. And it changes again when I push my hair back from my face, slower than I should have, at a speed that keeps you watching. It’s a look that I recognize, one that you’ve often tried to conceal in the past. Heat.

It’s gone in an instant. You stand up, rubbing at your damp neck as your vision slides right on past me to focus instead on the water. “I think I’ll go for a shower,” you announce in a rush. “Do you mind?”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a spare towel?”

It’s likely, but not certain. “You can borrow mine.”

“Right.” You nod, still fixated on that one particular point in the water. “Right.”

“Edge?” I say only when you make a move to leave my sight. You hesitate, then turn around to face me once more. This time, you properly look my way. I’m not prepared for it in the least.

“What is it?”

There had been no plan in place, no real reason for speaking up, other than, I think, to make you stay. But looking at you makes me bolder, although not enough to say what I _really_ want to.

“Sure you don’t want to swim some more?” It’s not a plea, just a suggestion. And it’s certainly not a confession. Or an explanation about how some things in life are just inevitable. What’s the point of wasting my breath when I think you already know it all? “Come on. It’s hot and there’s no air conditioning inside. Why go in there when you have the option of a nice cold pool?”

You offer me a faint smile as a response. It’s more than I figured I would get. “Don’t stay out here for too much longer,” you tell me, sounding like the parent that you are. “You’ll get burned.” Well, they always do say that concern for one’s wellbeing is a form of true affection.

Who are _they_? Experts, I can only assume. You would know for sure.

I watch you go, and wait until the door has closed behind you to dive back under the surface. There is a sense of satisfaction that comes when my fingers again brush against the bottom of the pool. I keep them there for as long as I can manage, until my heart seems to move from my chest to my head, pounding between my ears.

The human body is wired to react accordingly when it feels threatened, oxygen deprival being one of the more pressing matters that causes the adrenaline to start pumping like there’s no tomorrow.

Some people like to jump out of airplanes to achieve that feeling, others drive at dangerous speeds or rob banks. Me? I’m scared of heights, but have been known to climb high above an audience. I have a fear of drowning, yet here I am, bursting above the surface for air only when the panic becomes too great.

And I know right from wrong, but the rush I feel when I break a rule often makes me want to continue straying from that path of righteousness.

Coming home late or not at all, drinking far too much when I shouldn’t, slipping away from a bodyguard that is only trying to protect me from grievous harm or the kind of trouble I might face when left to my own devices—all these choices have consequences, and yet I make them time and time again, simply because there is almost no better feeling in life than pure exhilaration. That adrenaline rush, the sound of my heart beating loudly, the flush of heat I feel when you look at me in that suggestive way . . .

I _swear_ I know right from wrong, and so do you. But it’s our flaws that make us all human, isn’t it? And at the end of the day, we’re all striving for the same fucking thing.

I swim for a while longer, delaying the inevitable until I can’t anymore and have to climb out of the water. My wet feet leave sad little footprints that quickly start to fade on the cement as I pad around the pool, picking up bottles and my forgotten shirt before making my way inside. There’s a party to prepare for, after all, though that won’t take long and we still have plenty of time. An hour, at least, of just the two of us, alone.

I want to get back in the pool and hide, I want to step into the bathroom without knocking first and make my presence known to your naked self. Instead, I do the adult thing and clean up our mess before sitting down on the kitchen floor like a fucking child might. It’s where you find me.

“What are you doing down there?” you ask, frowning at me like I’m a crossword puzzle.

I honestly have no fucking idea. Lamely, I offer the first explanation that springs to mind. “It looked like a good place to sit.”

“Is it?”

“. . . I’m yet to decide.”

You sigh, then join me on the floor. “I think the couch would be more comfortable,” you say after a few seconds of contemplative silence. The tone of your voice tells me you’re trying too hard, but I would never dream of calling you out on that.

“You’re probably right.”

I get up when you do, follow you through two rooms like a loyal dog, and sit down on our piece of shit couch that is still definitely more comfortable than the ground, but not nearly as cool. You hand me the remote control before sitting at my side. “You choose,” you say. “I need a break from making hard choices.”

It’s an attempt at a joke that doesn’t land. But when you glance my way I know you’re searching for the right kind of reaction. You’re after a smile, at the very least. It’s not a want, but a need, one that I understand all too well.

I can’t deny you such a simple kindness. I doubt I could deny you anything in the world.

Relief flashes across your face when I give you exactly what you need. It’s not like us to be on such different wavelengths, yet here we are. Isn’t it funny how determination can make a person try and reshape the real world until it matches the one they’ve fabricated in their mind?

One smile, and we’re apparently back on track. Another, and perhaps you’ll be completely convinced that we really are okay. But deep down, I think the truth is obvious to us both:

We are supremely fucked.

 

* * *

 

After a careful re-evaluation, I’ve come to the conclusion that I was wrong about you.

You’re desperate, not determined, though I would never accuse you of that to your face. You might take it the wrong way, but you shouldn’t—such a state of mind is only pathetic when it’s not yours.

No, even now I view you as being utterly noble, bereft of the type of qualities that make a person truly pitiful. And it’s not alcohol that is making me hold you in such high regard. You know that I can handle my liquor, that it takes a lot of whiskey for me to create a fresh new persona.

The night has barely begun. I can still talk the talk, and walk the walk—in a straight line, in fact. I’ve seen the bottom of my glass enough to know that the booze isn’t flowing my way as well and often as it usually does, but that’s okay, because I see you too.

Fear has never looked this sexy on anyone else. Not Jamie Lee Curtis, or Heather Langenkamp, or even Sigourney Weaver. You laugh alongside Larry, and that actor whose face I know but cannot quite place the name (probably a Corey, or a Tom, or perhaps a Richard, the only three choices in Hollywood these days), conforming in that expected way. I bet they think you the very picture of a content partygoer, he who empties his drink and immediately starts another, who listens to the stories being told and offers his own, and smiles and socialises until it all becomes too much noise and another seat must be found.

You distance yourself in such a way that people think you haven’t, just like I’ve already done. Tonight, I’m playing the part of the loner, shrouded in partial darkness from various angles but not from you. We’re physically here, but mentally, who knows? Not them. It’s just you and I, alone in the heart of a party, and yet you refuse to acknowledge me from across the pool.

But again, that’s okay. Because I’m still looking at you.

There’s a body of water between us, but that doesn’t make a lick of difference to me. I know each angle of your face—and the ways that they can change—well enough to pinpoint what you’re trying to hide, and what you’ve let slip through unaware. And while I’m not sure what’s happened to make you go from _we can’t do this_ , from trying too hard to fear of what might yet happen, I can still sense the change in you.

We understand each other so well, don’t we?

I know all your smiles and have doubted only one, you question some of mine even when I’ve yet to realize there’s reason to do so myself. Rarely have I been able to hide my true emotions from you.

A smile is a smile is a smile, except when it’s not. On any other day, I doubt that relief would have made an appearance when it had, only a few hours earlier. No, I think that one look my way would have been enough to cause a quiet freak out, though you’d try and hide it so well.

You always know it’s bad when I’m at the point of raising the _we’re fucked_ signal, don’t you? And yet you’re there every time to keep my head above water, even when I’m sure we’re going to drown.

As bad as it looks, I still have faith. You’ve never failed me before. I doubt you ever will. In Paris, I was telling the truth when I said you were better than me, and you looked at me like I was out of my mind, like you believed the opposite to be true. We’ve placed each other upon a pedestal, but for once in your life I’m certain you’re wrong.

It’s not me, Edge, it’s you. It’s always been you.

You won’t let me go under. You can’t. But there are perhaps times that you should.

 _Oh, Edge_ , I might whisper in your ear if I could walk on water, _there’s still a small part of me that knows I’m being selfish, and wants to change. As for the rest of me . . . the rest of me also knows, and wants you anyway._ Now _do you believe that you’re the better man?_

I hope you do, I hope that you’re waging a similar internal battle that’s left you desperate, left you scared. I could take the long walk around the pool and ask you in person.

If I yelled your name now, would you hear me over the music? Would you glance my way, and keep looking until I found the courage to get up out of this fucking chair? Or would you do the right thing and start making excuses until you were permitted to leave? _Hollie is sick and my wife wants sex, plus I think I left the oven on_ , you would say and people would believe you, because it is you. And when it came time for the final excuse, it would be for my benefit alone, a hard _f_ making its painful reappearance in my life. _My family needs me, Bono._

Would you try that one out again? There’s only one way to find out.

But I don’t get up and go to you, and you don’t glance my way and dare me to try. Instead, we continue to drink—in unity, in solitude, in an effort to become shitfaced that gets us nowhere fast.

All too quickly, I find myself looking at the bottom of an empty glass. Across the pool, you’re allowing some fucking person who I do _not_ know to offer you a refill. I’m not jealous of this nobody, it’s just that it’s usually me who is constantly topping up your glass at parties, and answering _don’t be ridiculous, The Edge, now drink up_ when you ask me if I’m trying to get you drunk.

You smile at him, respond to whatever is being said, and then laugh like you mean it. But I’m still not jealous, because you are free to talk to anyone who comes near. You are not my possession, as no healthy human relationship should function that way, platonic or otherwise. Which one are we?

I think platonic went out the window a long time ago. But I still have no claim over you, and cannot in my right mind try and leap over a pool to shout _I saw him first, so back off!_ There’s a wedding ring on your finger, and we are caught somewhere between a world where we are simply friends, and one where life has become complicated and simpler at the same fucking time.

It’s only you that could leave me considering such a conundrum, only you that could make sense where there is none. I could whisper that in your ear right now, and know that you would understand me implicitly, as you always do when I sprout words that bend the very fabric of logic as it stands in this world.

But I still cannot seem to get out of this chair, and you don’t appear to be needing my company. Independence is a wonderful thing, within reason, and you have it now and will continue to do so in the future, no matter what happens. So laugh at his jokes instead of making eye contact with me—you have the right.

That said, there is a quality in whiskey that has been known to make me lash out and start thumping those who I think are deserving of my rage. You know this, and so do I, and so should your new friend, right now for anecdotal reasons more than anything. But if he is determined to stick around by your side long into the night . . .

Maybe I am a little jealous. Yet why should I be? You won’t even say yes to me, why would you give in to some nobody who you just met? Sure, he’s taller than us both by a wide margin, with a body that makes sense and is pleasing to the eye, all long-legged and broad-shouldered, wearing only a vest like we’re in direct competition, fashion wise. Where are your fucking sleeves, you fuck? What are you trying to pull?

This is who I am now, it seems. A few drinks in and I’ve lost all reason, but only when it comes to you. It’s never been like this before . . . except those times that it has.

I think it’s always simmering at least a little below the surface, that jealousy. It might have even been there since the very beginning.

Abruptly, my personal space is intruded upon. I jump without meaning to when a hand lands on my thigh, and the hairs on the back of my neck and arms rise to attention when my new companion leans in close to be heard over the music, her breath smelling of beer as it warms the skin of my cheek.

“What are you doing over here without anyone to keep you company?” she asks, the position of her hand making it clear she’s volunteering to give up her precious alone time for me. There’s room in my life for just one Ali, spelled the only way that seems right and logical to me, not with two _l_ ’s and a _y_. “It isn’t right.”

“You don’t think I’m good enough company to keep myself entertained?” To her and the rest of the world bar you and my Ali—the only one I need—such a sentence might sound a lot like flirting. And maybe it is on some molecular level, as at some point early on in my life I forgot how to interact with people like a normal human being. A new self was fabricated long before I came to LA.

But this time, my aim isn’t true flirtation, but rather _I’ve got this covered, sweetheart, I’ve chosen to be alone for a reason, so why even try?_ veiled with a wink and a smile that I put as little effort into as I can stand.

Ally laughs as though I just asked her for a lap dance and she’s about to fake saying no when we all know she means yes. She brushes her hair back with her free hand, while the other remains right where she thinks it needs to be. I know that smile from the movies, that look from real life, from women at parties and bars who think I’m a certain breed of rock star, that I have a specific itch that only they can scratch for an hour, a night, however long they are needed.

This Ally is not the one I always want, and she is not you.

She is not you.

The song that is playing—some thrash number that does nothing for me—starts to fade out as I look away from her and find you watching us.

I’m certain you’ll glance away immediately. You don’t. You’re caught and you know it, but that seems to be the least of your worries.

That look on your face . . . I think you know jealously too, Edge. You know what it's like to feel irrational about someone who is not yours. Is it churning in your mind? Making you consider this and that, things I don't dare think about too hard, for fear it might somehow scare you away? I can still hope, though. There's no harm in that.

You don’t turn away, and neither do I. At my side, Ally is saying something, her lips brushing my ear in a way that is not needed when there’s no music to be heard over, her hand still against my thigh. Her words fall out of my head before they can be properly processed. She is not you.

You turn away. I can’t quite figure what it is you’re looking at, only that it isn’t me. The angles of your face, the lines that make me want to pick up a pencil and put it to paper . . . from front on you are a sight to behold, but there’s just something about you in profile that inspires me, that makes me ache, makes me live. I have sketched you so many times, both by hand and in my head. Whatever I’ve created, however, can never compare to the real thing.

I want you to look back at me, but it’s not necessary to gather your current state of mind. Your profile tells me more than enough, providing answers as well as raising questions that hang in the air between us.

“Are you okay?” Ally asks me. I’m not, but she doesn’t need to know that. She would never understand why. She says my name when I don’t respond, impatience masked with concern. I don’t turn to her. I can’t. You wanker, look what you’ve done to me. I think I _could_ walk on water this evening, if it were the only way to be by your side. And I might yet.

I think you want me to. That’s why you looked away when you did, isn’t it? You should know by now that I can still read you, just as you are.

The short interlude between songs comes to an end, a selection having been made. The thrash is left behind, and I could kiss whoever chose to play Deep Purple. But it’s not just the band that’s significant, is it? As it stands, I can only assume this song being played at this very moment in our lives is a gift from God himself. Of course, I’m already looking at you when you glance back my way, the expression on your face painting a story from the past, the future, the now.

We know this song, don’t we?

On my worst days, I’ve hoped that you did remember that evening, just as I do. On my best, I’ve placed you as someone determined to keep looking ahead, remembering only that which you deem to be significant, though even those such moments have a tendency to sometimes pass you by. And it was on those better days that I doubted the importance of that night, figuring that, to you, it might have been just a flash in the pan, forgotten in a week.

You once told me that I’m asking for trouble, that I might as well be wearing a sign that says _hit me as hard as you dare, I probably fucking deserve it_. But you see, Edge, I don’t need someone to come and do that for me—I know how to hurt myself without even leaving a mark. And I think so do you. We all do it, don’t we? We wonder and assume and _obsess_ until a scar is made.

But now I know for sure. You didn’t forget. You’re still right there with me.

You confided in me later that my shoebox of a bedroom always made you feel a bit anxious, though you could never place why. Perhaps it was the size of my room, or the circumstances of my life at that stage. Some days, the simple act of opening my bedroom door could light a fuse, bringing fireworks that you weren’t accustomed to. You hadn’t known raised voices or words of brutality like I had. I imagine you still don’t, even now. But if you were anxious that night, you didn’t show it.

As punk as we were, that day I had been in the mood for something a little more experimental, and you, I just don’t know. Was it the need to hear a guitar sing, to follow the rhythm of it all as it quickened only to slow down once again that you were after?

It’s a bit like making love sometimes, isn’t it? And it’s all done with a guitar in hand—an extension of you, I’ve always thought. I touch your strings, slide my fingers along the body as if it were you, in reverence, in longing, more. I watch you play and wonder. Your hands, your fingers . . . you know, they move sometimes even when you’re holding nothing. It happens when you’re listening to enviable music, or a melody that’s almost there, or when there’s no music at all, and you’re just watching and wanting to touch, to know something that is not yet yours. They shift without you even realizing.

They were the first thing I noticed that night, when I opened my eyes.

There I had been on the floor, stretched out on my back with you sitting at my side, your knees drawn up tight, your fingers twitching as you stared, biting your lip in a way that terrified me, excited me, made me want to ask a question or four. I think you’d considered yourself safe, that I wouldn’t catch you looking. That my eyes had still been closed.

You hadn’t noticed my re-emergence into the stratosphere, distracted as you were by the lyrics, the melody, and me, just me. The exposed skin of my stomach, the trail of hair leading up and down, continuing on under faded denim—even in profile I’d seen enough to know what you were thinking.

And yet there had been a moment where I wondered whether it was nothing, another where I was convinced that uncertainty would soon be a thing of the past. I’d not known what to do, I’d known exactly what I wanted, my hand had started to move against my bare skin as if possessed by someone who had never once been held back by their own indecision.

Spellbound, you had watched my fingertips follow a line against my skin, dragging my shirt higher, trailing down and up, down and up, down and down as my confidence grew, need dictating my actions, nails scraping against faded denim, _wait for the ricochet_. And then, earlier than I wanted it to but later than it likely should have, that moment had ended, allowing for a new one to begin.

Our eyes had met. You’d still been in a haze, and might have been malleable enough to accept whatever was being suggested, had I the courage then to touch myself like I’d wanted to, sending you a stark message of what was on offer. As it was, I’d only been nineteen—a reckless idiot already, for sure, but still hesitant in so many ways.

The fog had lifted far too soon, replaced by an expression that I’d never experienced on your face before. It hadn’t been shame of being caught looking, nor fear of how I might yet react. No, it had been something new.

And then it had flitted away, and so had you, my record collection becoming your next distraction in life. I’d watched you until the song ended and the next track took its place, some seven minutes later, waiting for . . . just waiting.

But we’d not talked about it. Not then, not later.

I think it’s time we did. So that you can face the music and stop pretending that we’re going to make it past this without an implosion happening. That we _have_ to.

It’s been nearly ten years, Edge, and nothing has changed. In fact, time has only made me want you more. You know all about inevitability, you’ve mentioned it in depth in the past regarding things that are insignificant compared to this, and you’re living it now. We both are.

Ally’s hand has finally slipped away. I think she’s given up on me, and is now at the point of the evening where muttering to herself seems like the best course of action. Drunk, she’s no doubt assumed my problem as being as she finally gets up and leaves. Or high. Or both. I hope she doesn’t think she’s to blame. It’s not her fault, after all. She’s just not you.

It’s a standoff we’ve found ourselves in. Eventually, one of us will have to look away and ruin the moment, or better it by making a goddamn move. And I want it to be you, for you to break your rules so that I truly know, and won’t spend my life wondering if it was your inability to say no to me and make it stick that ultimately made you cave. I _need_ it to be you, but that look on your face, that indescribable expression . . .

There’s a reason why we’re both still in our seats. I’ve always been better at taking the lead, at following my heart while you shadow me, or quietly watch, and wait, like the genius that you are. A tactical move on your part, one that is manipulative only when we want it to be. Eventually, I’ll come to you, whether it be for your opinion or to vent at you, or something more.

I’ll come to you.

And I am, rising out of my seat with the conviction of a man who is not plagued by even one ounce of anxiety. I will walk on water, better the moment, pretend as though I have a plan in place, that I don’t know doubt, never have, and that the flash of shock across your features caused by my resolve—a look that quickly dissolves into one that almost resembles apprehension, or relief, or something new entirely—doesn’t make me hesitate for even one fucking second.

But I do pause, and you do stare at me in that unfamiliar way as Ian Gillan’s voice starts its attempt at breaking through the clouds and reaching God.

You bastard, how is it that a single look from you can make me imagine confliction where there is none? There’s nothing you have to do, nothing you _are_ doing, to create chaos. It’s just you being you. Looking at me, your frown smoothing out, your fingers twitching against your thigh. I can see them stir even from across the pool. I notice them simply because I’m seeking out that movement in you.

A crash cuts through the static, the sound of broken glass heard even above the music, making me jump and spin to seek out the culprit. A table has been upturned, taking with it our good friend Jack Daniel’s and his snobby companion Belvedere, among other bottles and tumblers.

There is a small outcry taking place, as is often the case when booze leaves us before we are ready, but Adam remains completely unbothered by it all. He’s lacking a shirt, and his shoes are also missing—a slight worry so close to such a crime scene—yet I have faith in him, as always, to navigate through life without getting hurt.

It’s hard to hear him over the music, but I’m fairly certain he is telling people that there are more drinks to be found in the kitchen, or the lounge, or even if they just turn their heads slightly to the left and take notice of that other table that hasn’t been turned over, the one housing all those beautiful bottles that will probably be the downfall of us all. Even while drunk, it’s still in Adam’s nature to be polite and helpful. A fucking gentleman if I ever saw one.

And then he’s off, sidestepping the mess in that enviable way of his to leap into the pool without a care, a move that I half-predicted him to do seconds before it happened. I think I know you three better than I know myself. But it’s you who occupies his own section in my brain, Edge. It’s your voice that I hear when I need it most, the one that makes sense where there is none.

You’re gone when I glance back. I’m not surprised. Why would I be when I know you so well? But it’s still disheartening to see your chair empty, to lose sight of the one fucking person I want right now.

Where have you gone? What are you doing? I have to know. Now. _We shan’t never be parted_ —is that how the line went, in that movie? It came after a kiss, I remember that much, that and you by my side in a darkened cinema, our knees so close to bumping and staying, your palm upturned and slightly curled against the armrest between us. I had thought you were daring me to take a hold of it, I’d figured you’d merely found a comfortable way to rest your arm, I’d sat with my own hands in my lap, watching the screen, watching you, inwardly lamenting my own choice of film for the feelings it stirred within me, and celebrating it for that very same reason.

I’m almost positive that, right now, there is a wall between us. A room or two. And that just will not do. We’re not to be parted, Edge, not anymore.

And there it goes, that painfully familiar guitar, painting its melody in the sky as I find my feet, quickening with my step as I walk around the pool instead of over it.

I offer a blank smile to those that call my name, brushing past people I know, others that I almost recognize from a film or a magazine cover that is touting them as the new one to watch. I offer no excuses as I mostly ignore them all, and I’m forgotten almost immediately. On any other night, I might have felt insulted by their complete disregard towards me, but right now, I’m glad for it.

Inside, it’s more of the same. I pass stumblers, those determined to walk tall and act fine, and a couple hooking up next to the door of a room you are not in. The music is bleeding through the walls as I search for you, checking places that I’m already ninety percent convinced you bypassed on your way to my bedroom. Because that’s where you are. I’m sure of it even as I doubt my own certainty. It’s either that or you’ve left the premises entirely and are on your way home, but I don’t buy that. I think I would know if you were gone, not in a psychic kind of way, just . . .

I know you. That’s all there is to it.

And I’m right. You are in my bedroom, sitting on my bed with my diary in your lap.

It’s an intrusion, one that I’m not offended by. If it were anyone else, I would be getting very loud right about now. But how could I be upset by you reading my most personal thoughts? They’re primarily about you, after all—you have every right to them. And it wasn’t hidden. I’d left the diary there on my bedside table, opened up to today’s page for anyone to discover it, had they found a legitimate reason to surround themselves with my belongings. I think I had left it there in hopes that it would be read by you, as only you would understand today’s entry, and the one written that night after the club, and all the others.

I’d only had three words within me this morning when I put pen to paper, a question that I’d asked myself despite already knowing the answer: _Aren’t you tired?_

But it wasn’t just directed at me. And you know this.

You’re in profile again, half hidden from me with your shoulders hunched, your fingers delicate against the paper as though you think too much pressure will destroy evidence that you may yet need as justification for your future actions. Your expression is indescribable, yet telling. I don’t have to ask you that very question you’re reading—you’ve given me a _yes_ without doing a thing but sitting there, staring down at a page that is mostly blank for an unnerving amount of time.

I don’t dare interrupt you. I can’t. You need this. And when the moment is over, the dust having settled within you, I hope you take the time to breathe, just breathe, before you glance over your shoulder and see me watching from the doorway. Waiting.

The air is stuffy and too warm in here. I can still hear music through the walls, the rumbling bass, the drums in the night. It’s hard to place the melody, muffled as it is. Has a new song started, or are we still waiting for that explosive climax?

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, slightly concealed, watching you. It might have been merely a minute or two, it could have been far longer. You haven’t moved. You’ve barely blinked. Oh, Edge, what have I done to you? I know, I know.

You move only when I become certain you never will again, turning the page, using my diary to head back in time. Three pages, four. _How long can we make it last?_ I wrote before I asked you in person. Four pages, more. _Oh, Edge_. You see that too, I’m sure of it. Perhaps that’s what makes you close the book and place it—gently, as though it were made of glass—back on my bedside table. You’re smart enough to remember that it was open when you found it. You don’t mean to hide your tracks.

I want you to look my way, I need you to breathe for just a little while longer. And I’m thinking once more about how a single moment of weakness could ruin so much when you reach over and take my discarded shirt in hand, but any notion of guilt is forgotten when you bring the worn material to your face and breathe me in.

It’s a sight that makes my chest clench, that chases any thoughts that aren’t about you clear out of my mind. I don’t know guilt, or why I should say no. It’s you, just you that has me, and I cannot imagine a single scenario where that could ever be a bad thing. I _refuse_ to. Not anymore. Are you right there with me, Edge?

You are. I’m sure of it even before you bring my shirt down to your lap and finally spot me out the corner of your eye. It’s not surprise that I see appear on your face, nor true embarrassment at getting caught, but something else, a look that I’m learning is one that belongs only to me. The air in here . . . I may suffocate yet.

There is a beat of silence as we stare at each other. You break it by saying, “Sorry,” sounding anything but.

“It’s alright,” I tell you. What else could I say? Not a damn thing. It’s what we both need to hear me say. It’s the truth. I take one step into the bedroom, and then another, but that’s as far as I can handle. I’ve held the lead as long as I could, Edge, I’ve been manipulated to come and find you. What happens now? You’re done with waiting. Yet it’s only your eyes that are moving, as they roam my face, my chest, lower, and then back up to where they started. I take another step closer. “Had enough of the party?”

“I just—I needed some quiet, I suppose.”

“Do you want me to leave you?” It’s a question that I know I have to ask, for reasons I cannot quite recall right now. _Tell me no_ , I'm tempted to demand. _Tell me anything you want, as long as you don’t make me go._

“It’s your room. I don’t have the right to ask you to leave.”

“You have every right if you need the silence. I’ll go, if that’s what you want.” I can say this, only because I already know your answer. And the look you give me confirms this.

I’m not grasping for straws in assuming you want me here—you’re past the point of having it any other way. I wish I were drunk off my arse, I’m glad there’s only a few drinks in me. If I were any closer to being shitfaced I would have found that courage and made my move before you asked me to, but that’s not how this is supposed to go. It’s your lead, Edge. We both need it to play out a certain way.

You look at me like I’m the better man, like it was me who hung the fucking moon. You trace a line down my body with your eyes, taking in my throat, my chest, my thighs, and between them.

It’s a different you that I see when our gazes meet once more. Any thought of being resigned to our fate is behind you. I can still see that conflict, but it’s been overtaken by the moment, by a single thought.

You look at me like you want to take me apart, piece by piece.

“I don’t want you to go,” you say. It's an admittance, a plea. 

I shut the door behind me, locking it without a second thought. You’re still holding my shirt when you stand, your fingers curled in the material as though you’re afraid to let it go, that you’ll lose it all completely once you do. But then you find that much-needed courage to put it down, as gently as you did my diary, and make the first move.

You approach me at first in stilted, unsure steps, like I am some flighty animal that you’re scared might yet flee, and maybe there is some truth to be found in such a thought process, or perhaps it's you who we should be worried about. _This isn’t a mistake_ , I tell myself only because it’s something I need to hear. _It can’t be_. There’s no crime in wanting you, no way in going without for even a second longer.

My smile makes you pick up the pace, finding the confidence that is needed by at least one of us to push forward and get us off this carousel that keeps spinning and spinning and fucking _spinning_ around.

When you do reach me there is no hesitation, no overthinking, just that look in your eye, the one I know. You cup my neck, my jaw with both hands, tilt my head up in one smooth motion and kiss me.

And the angels do not rejoice, the heavens do not part to shine down in reverence. It's just you and me in a room that's seen better days, you and your tongue, your whiskey mouth, your fingers digging into my jaw, finding my hair, grasping, clutching, pulling, the type of hurt that I enjoy. It’s impossible to process, so I don’t even try. This is happening, this is real, what else do I need to know? I have you, I have you . . .

I’ve lost you. And the look on your face when you pull back, that tortured expression, is like being sucker punched at a time when I could _never_ be prepared for it.

It’s gone in an instant, but not forgotten, replaced with something close to relief. Your dark eyes, your fingers in my hair—do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of this?

You do. And you’ve been imagining it too, since that night in Dublin, at least. Maybe even earlier. I know this without having to ask. Your sigh tells me a decade-long story, your hands fill in all the gaps. “Bono,” you say, and leave it at that. When you lean back in I’m ready for it, but you don’t kiss me like I hope you would. Instead, you bury your face into my neck and breathe, just breathe.

What do I smell like to you? I think I know. And it’s not sweat or whiskey, it’s not even expensive cologne. It’s like coming home.

There’s not enough room between us, I want us to be closer still. The air in here feels like a stormy summer’s night, where there’s lightning in the distant clouds, electricity prickling my skin. But maybe it’s not the air. It might just be you.

When I press my palm against your chest, your heart, I find you thrumming beneath the surface, coming alive purely for me. You’re right about so much, Edge, about almost everything, in fact, but I’m positive you’ve gotten at least two things wrong in your life. I’m not a livewire, I’m not the better man, it’s you. It’s always been you.

 I say your name, and that’s all it takes for it to start again. You’re overheating, your shirt clinging to your damp back, your upper lip tasting like salt. I’m trying, but I just cannot get close enough to you. Your heat, your grasping hands, your mouth against my throat, _kiss me everywhere_ , I nearly let slip, _do it like I’ve imagined you would, make me yours_. I am, I am.

I honestly don’t know how you do it, love, how you made me craft a fresh new persona, just for you. But it’s still mostly me, isn’t it? The only parts that are different are the ones that no one else will never see, not even . . .

No. Why ruin this by adding guilt back into the equation? It’s you, only you who has me right now, while the door is locked, the party a distant rumbling of bass and drums and distorted voices, and an ocean is between this country and ours.

Your hips against mine, your moan . . . I still feel at home, so far away from Dublin.

You pull away only when you have to, your forehead coming to rest against mine. I don’t want to stop, though I know we need to catch our breath. What I want is for you to press me against the door and keep me there until the pressure of the handle digging into my back goes from niggling to painful. I want you to drag me across the room and push me onto the bed, make me yours. I don’t want to stop. But I allow it, only because I know this pause won’t last long.

 _Oh Edge, what are we doing?_ I might write in my diary tomorrow when thinking back, but the future doesn’t matter, only the now.  Can you sense the electricity in the air? Is your skin prickling with it? _What are we doing?_ I know, I know. Breathe in, breathe out. Exhale and start the whole process all over once more. _Disappear here_ , your eyes are pleading, but it’s aimed at yourself, not me. I don’t need persuading, after all—I’ve made my decision, I know exactly what I want. _Disappear completely_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two songs mentioned are I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch) by The Four Tops and Child in Time by Deep Purple, the latter which also inspired the chapter title. I love them both, so so much, and recommend them 100%
> 
> The film that Bono and Edge went to see is Maurice, from 1987. It features one of my favourite screen kisses, SEEK IT OUT.
> 
> Ally is Ally Sheedy, who I know nothing about but just needed a famous lady from the time period . . . and also, I could not resist the similar name to a certain Ali. My apologies to Ms Sheedy.


End file.
